


Hues of Blues and Greens (and a Bit of Red)

by vaguefuture



Category: Merlin (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bromance, Doctor Merlin, Fix-It, Fluff, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:03:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaguefuture/pseuds/vaguefuture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts when an ancient wizard of legends takes in a wounded immortal God of Mischief. Meanwhile, Thor gets sick and apparently, a man named Marvin Ambrose is the best doctor in the world, if the word of Tony Stark is to be believed. Cue unlikely friendships, attempted angst, lots of movie/tv show refrences, angst, centuries-old secrets, convenient coincidences, oh, and angst</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dark Cyan: A Dangerous Mix of Blue and Green

WARNINGS: Non-graphic descriptions of violence

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Chapter One

Dark Cyan: A Dangerous Mix of Blue and Green

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Winter in London was the most surreal thing one could ever experience.

With its tall structures of great architectural designs outlined with dusty white, the sight was practically breathtaking. Trees and plants, their leaves abandoning them in favor of the snowy ground, scattered miserably in parks and pavements. Traces of snow covered them like chalk-shaded portraits.

The light breeze whispered cold bites to everything in its path. Fortunately (or unfortunately had you chose to ask the giddy children running rampant on the slippery white mounds), snowflakes had ceased their falling. Above, in the night sky, looming great clouds of gray threatened more snowfall.

The vehicles on the streets were slowly diminishing, the drivers and their passengers eager to get to the warmth of their respective homes. Wrapped in this wool clothing and scarves, the good people of London pulled their jackets closer as they trudged by. Most were walking at a fast pace, eager to escape the cold night. Other were holding a cup of warm beverage, enjoying winter the best they can.

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A couple of hours later, we go to a little corner in London.

A large structure in the color of beige stood grimly amongst the snowy terrain. Composed of three wings and about six floors, the structure was intimidating in its whole. Above its glass front doors, an "Albion Hospital" was embossed in thick bold letters.

Inside, a pale young man was striding towards the front door. Then, pausing and tilting his head, he abruptly changed direction.

"I'm off, Katie!" the dark-haired young man approached the reception desk. He gave a sun-bright grin towards the blonde woman on the other side. "Just finished checking up on the pediatrics ward."

The woman, with her hair in a messy bun, couldn't help but smile in reply, albeit the curve of her lips was a bit strained from exhaustion. "You're too cheery for this time of the night, Marvin." She managed to say around a yawn.

"No one's too cheery for any time." Marvin chuckled.

He pulled his thick cotton black coat around himself, the cold from outside permeating through the walls. Even the heater could not hope to eliminate the coldness from this near the front door. Katie herself was wearing a thick overcoat over her stark white uniform to stave off the cold.

"Well, you are. And you've been here since Friday night, you plonker." Katie said with a note of admonishment. "Francis is going to have a heart attack at what you're doing to yourself. You know how he gets."

Marvin winced, probably remembering that incident wherein he collapsed right in the middle of the hall, gotten admitted, and scolded by the director of the hospital himself. Apparently, Marvin had forgotten to eat or sleep for the past three days because of the many emergencies coming in simultaneously. With few staffs available back then, Marvin reasoned that it was necessary. Francis had been mollified by the explanation but said that Marvin wouldn't be able to go back to work if he didn't take three weeks of rest, much to the doctor's dismay.

That's what Katie, and practically everyone in the hospital, loved and hated about him; all self-preservation was abandoned because of his extremely selfless attitude. Katie sighed internally.

"Don't tell him." Marvin implored, stormy-blue eyes wide. "I ate and managed to catch a few winks in the lounge. Plus, it was one only whole day. No reason to worry." The last statement was said with a reasonably positive tone, as if he could convince Katie through his positivity.

However, Katie stared at him with mixed disbelief and confusion. "One day? Marvin, today's Sunday. Well, early Monday morning."

The doctor laughed nervously. "No, it's not. It's Saturday." He lifted his wrist and pulled the sleeves of his jacket back. He stared at his digital wristwatch and his brows rose.

Katie raised an unimpressed brow. "You have no sense of time whatsoever, Marvin." She tutted, shaking her head.

Marvin shrugged and Katie noticed the tenseness of his shoulders. "I guess that what happens when you're getting old." He said with a cheeky grin.

Katie rolled his eyes but couldn't stop the small smile from getting to her face. "Always with the old man jokes, Marvin." She reached out a hand and held one of his cheeks in a hard pinch. "You're too young for that. See all that baby fat." She gave a small shake.

Marvin batted away her fingers with an indignantly childish yelp, further proving her claim. He rubbed the slowly reddening mark on his cheek. "I'm not that young!"

Katie gave an indulging smile. Then, her expression turned into a frown as she looked closer at the doctor. The dark shadows beneath his eyes suddenly became stark against his pale pallor. "I won't hold you up much longer. Go home and sleep." She said, worry dripping in her voice. "I won't tell Francis anything." She mimed the zippering and locking of her lips and then, throwing the key away.

It earned her a light chuckle from the doctor. "Thanks, Katie." He yawned, the exhaustion of the last few days suddenly catching up to him. "Don't overwork yourself, yeah?" he said, walking backwards towards the front door.

Katie resisted the urge to throw something at the doctor's head. "You idiot, that should be my line."

Marvin merely gave a smile and a small wave. He pushed the foggy glass doors open, shivering at the sudden gust of wind that met him. Then, he trotted down the front stairs of the hospital.

Katie watched him go. She shook her head fondly before getting back to work.

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Merlin (or rather, Marvin Ambrose as his birth certificate dictated) stepped out of the hospital's warmth and onto the cold winter air. Worn-out brown snow boots produced a squishy-crunchy sound as he walked down the ice-covered stairs. He exhaled, producing ice crystal in the damp minty air.

He glanced around and, seeing the deserted dark streets, gave a small sigh. I guess I'm walking, he said to himself. Well, it was only a twenty-minute walk anyway. He stuffed his gloveless hands in his coat pockets and started the trek home.

Before anyone gets confused, yes, he is the Merlin, (or Myrddin or Ambrosius or Wyllt or Aurelianus, and gods, how many names did Geoffrey have to invent to make it more dramatic?) immortal sorcerer of King Arthur Pendragon. And no, he is not an eighty-year-old senile man with a long white beard. That bit was an actual disguise because, well, magic was punishable by death back then and he had liked his head between his shoulders, thank you very much.

And, unlike the twisted words written by misinformed aspiring poets, he was not King Arthur's advisor nor was he nobleman. In fact, he was born in a fairly small village, raised alone by a kind-hearted mother, and journeyed to Camelot at the tender age of seventeen to control his inborn magical talents and find his destiny. Apparently, this destiny was to be the personal manservant and secret protector of an arrogant supercilious bully who called himself Prince Arthur Pendragon, who was actually older than him (but a lot less mature). Merlin's position at the royal household was disappointing and all kinds of horrible at first. He scrubbed wooden floors, did dirty laundry, fluffed cotton pillows (sometimes sleep on them), polished bulky armor, muck the royal stables (though that wasn't really part of his job. Arthur was just that much of an ass), and saved everyone's lives with forbidden arts all the time (with the prince getting all the credit and him, all the chores).

However, it got better. Apparently, Prince Arthur wasn't as much as a git as Merlin first thought. He defended servants and peasants, fought against his father (a tyrannical king) for what he thought was right, braved perilous lands to save the kingdom, and often attempted to sacrifice himself for the greater good (not that Merlin would let him). Merlin accompanied the prince in most of his quests because Arthur would literally be lost with the servant. Arthur got increasingly noble when he was crowned king, ruling his people fairly and wisely (though maybe, the wise part came from Merlin's unacknowledged advice). He married for love to a maidservant Guinevere (yes, not of noble blood either, people), practically breaking the prejudiced lines between noble-blooded and not.

Merlin and Arthur bantered and bickered incessantly (often to lighten the mood in dire situations), ignoring the amused smiles of knights and servants hidden behind hands. They were best friends, even if they were the last people to admit it.

So maybe, it shouldn't come as a surprise when jealous fate decided to separate them in most vicious of ways on That Day.

The feel of blood in his hands, the clinking sound of chainmail, the dimming of bright blue eyes, and the rasp of desperate last words . . .

The warlock closed his eyes against the onslaught of memories. He took a deep breath and successfully shook away all the morbid thoughts. Merlin glanced up at the sky, hoping to see some stars. The sight of them always calmed him. Plus, he had been cooped up in the hospital for way too long. Disappointingly, the sky only held thick gray clouds that loomed ominously.

"Oh well." He shrugged and continued his walk.

But as if that was the cue, a lone snowflake landed right on top of Merlin's nose. The coldness of it made him inexplicably sneeze. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. Another snowflake followed and then another. A few moments later, snow was falling around the houses and buildings like gentle whispers in the air.

Merlin was torn between hurrying home so as to not get wet or delaying his walk home so as to enjoy the first snow fall he experienced this year. He loved the snow and sometimes the cold that comes with it, especially if it was in a place as beautiful as London.

Well, he didn't used to like the cold back when Camelot was being plagued by ghost-like creatures called the Dorocha whose very touch froze and killed every mortal creature in its path. He especially didn't liked it when one of those creatures went through him in when he tried to save Arthur. Painful couldn't even begin to describe what he felt back then. Tiny but painful pinpricks pinched his skin like a thousand needles. The cold was unbearable, like the very blood in his veins were frozen and jaggedly flowing under his skin.

No mortal could ever survive the Dorocha's touch, Merlin remembered his mentor, Gaius, saying. When Merlin himself survived the ordeal, everyone had thought nothing of it, too relieved to question fate's workings. Gaius had said that perhaps the book he had consulted was wrong. It would be several decades later that Merlin would find out the real reason why he had lived—when his youthful skin fail to age, when all his friends grew gray with age. No mortal . . .

Merlin sighed once again, blowing away some of the snowflakes that threatened to land on his face. Lately, he had been getting lost in the memory lane of what he considered his 'first lifetime'. And although these memories from more than a thousand years ago will never truly fade, Merlin had wanted to move on from them. He didn't want to be tied to the past, not when he had been given the rare opportunity to explore many things.

The legends said that Arthur would come back when the world needs a prattish royal highness again. And really, that will be swell and all because Merlin was actually starting to miss the cabbage-head. But he had been disappointed before. He was not going to let his whole world revolve around the slight hope that his best friend would be back. He had to move on, especially when all his other friends had eventually passed away. And he had.

"Just feeling slightly nostalgic today." He muttered, reasoning that the stinging sensation in his eyes was because of the cold.

He turned a corner and realized with a start that his flat was only a few meters away. Posts of lamps shone brightly upon his street, lighting the way in the darkness. So lost in his thoughts, he hadn't noticed that he was nearly home. He sighed in relief. Well, Katie was right. Once he had stopped working, the exhaustion he had been staving off had immediately caught up to him. All he wanted now is to sleep the whole (apparent) Monday away. His shift in the hospital wasn't due for another three days, thank gods.

With a sigh of relief at the sight of his red-bricked flat, he took a step forward. Unlike the crunchy sound of snow he was expecting, he heard an odd metallic sound under his boot. He also felt some kind of smooth hard object meet the sole of his foot. He paused, glancing down as he moved his foot. A sort of silvery object was protruding above the snow, glinting against the bright lights of the lampposts. Merlin bent down, intent on picking up the object when his eyes strayed further.

A dark smudge stained the top of the snow, large and foreboding. Another one was near it, looking like a painter had dragged his fingers through the snow. It mixed with a snow like some kind of dye, some kind of drag marks smudging them even further. The colors were thick and wide in size. And . . . wet? Merlin had dipped his fingers in them and his fingertips came away sticky with the substance. Actually, looking at it closely, it appeared a bit like . . . Merlin held his fingers up in the light. Blood?

CLANG

In a dark alleyway between houses, a noise resounded obscenely loud. Merlin whipped his head towards the sound, battle instincts working up in his veins. His eyes darted towards the alleyway where the light, unfortunately, didn't reach its depths.

This street was only a couple blocks away from a police station so rarely would a robbery take place in any of these parts. Still, it was deep into the night and no sane person would be out at this time.

Merlin took a defensive stance, eyes narrowed. He took a careful step forward, not wanting to alert whoever was on that alleyway. If it turned out to be a mugger, Merlin didn't want anyone else to be victimized. When nothing came out to attack him, he risked another step. And another. On his third step, he saw a shadow in the corner moved further away, huddling in on itself.

"Hello?" his idiot mouth ran off, unable to contain itself. He cursed internally at his foolishness. But nothing more happened other than the shadow moving closer to itself, making a soft almost accidental whimpering sound.

Something snapped in Merlin's mind, an epiphany he probably should have had much earlier. He was doctor, for Avalon's sakes! The drag marks on the snow, that dark stain following it . . .

"Hello?" he tried again, approaching the alley more slowly for wholly another reason.

As he entered the shadowed alleyway, a strong smell of compost hit him. He coughed, covering his nose with his jacket sleeve. He can just about make out the garbage cans littering the corners and the various disgusting trashes scattering the whole ground. Everything had a smattering of snow to it, making it a bit of a desolate sight. And then there, Merlin saw it, from beside a cylindrical trashcan. A humanoid figure was trying to hide, balling up and trying to make itself small.

"Hey," Merlin held up his hands up in a placating manner even though he knew it wouldn't be seen. "It's okay. I want to help." He gave a brief glance at the blood on the ground. "A-Are you hurt?" He stepped deeper into the shadows.

A screeching noise alerted him to the fast moving projectile headed his direction. He easily sidestepped the garbage lid thrown his way. The lid landed unceremoniously in the middle of the street, making an unholy crunching sound. A universal sign for 'Go away!', Merlin thought to himself. But blood had coated the sides of lid, in shapes of handprints. No, Merlin cannot leave this alone.

"Look, I can help," he approached the huddled figure. "I'm a doctor. It's okay."

The figure didn't move an inch. Now that Merlin was in front of it, he could see dark neck-length hair and tattered clothing that was barely hanging together. The figure was hugging his knees, head bent atop them. Because of the lack of light, Merlin couldn't see any obvious injuries so he cautiously bent down, hands still out to show that he didn't mean harm.

"Where are you hurt?" he ventured but didn't dare touch without permission. There was something strange about the figure's skin color. Even in the darkness, it had a complexion that was somehow . . . blue?

Merlin heard a growl. Suddenly, the hands that were previously wrapped knees came up and shoved Merlin. Hard. The warlock hit his back on the opposite wall with PLAK and his head joined in with a resounding PAK. A great pain erupted at the back of his skull, making him see black spots. His shoulder blades ached horribly from the impact.

He groaned in pain, blinking rapidly to force away the threatening unconsciousness. He managed to successfully regain parts of his senses after a couple of moments. By the gods, what was that? His eyes turned again to the figure, meeting gazes with black pupils drenched in red-blood color.

Merlin froze at the inhumane eyes piercing through him, heart beating a loud rhythm in his ears. An unusual fear ran through his veins, paralyzing him for moments with a loud DANGER DANGER chanting in his head. What the . . . The owner of the strange eyes jerked its head to the side, a gesture clearly saying to 'Go or face the consequences'. The threatening gaze almost forced Merlin to obey, which, considering he had been the receiver of many more from intimidating enemies, was something.

But then, the warlock's eyes drifted downward. And what he saw could be described as a scene from a horror film. In the time it takes to blink, Merlin found himself right in front of the figure once again. Without really thinking, his hand came up and grabbed the other's chin. He raised the head up, blue orbs widening as he realized his eyes weren't deceiving him.

"Bloody hell . . ."

Crisscrossing threads stitched the whole mouth closed, dried blood staining what was previously golden strings. They cut the skin around the lips, pulling at every movement. It was like an emulation of one of those voodoo dolls in movies.

The figure jerked its head out of Merlin's grasp, glaring. The male features in its face becoming evident. The movement must have pulled something because the man (from what Merlin could see) closed his strange eyes for a brief moment and released a pained whimper from the back of his throat.

A surge of pity and anger went through Merlin. What kind of person would do such an inhumane thing? Something so horrible . . . When he managed to take a closer look, the warlock gave a startled gasp. In the meager light filtering through the alley, he saw an expanse of blue skin being covered by those inadequate clothing.

Mutant, his mind supplied. Many mutants had been his patients throughout the years, mostly brought to the hospital because they had been victims of hate crimes. Most injuries were severe, almost critical. Hate crimes against them were so unreasonable and so sickening. Why hate someone because of a quality or ability they were born with? Merlin pursed his lips, attempting to assuage his anger lest he lashed out with his magic. No wonder the other had been so aggressive. He probably thought that Merlin would cause him further harm.

Merlin's eyes softened as he turned to the huddled figure. "Hey," he started with what he hoped was a soothing voice. Obsidian orbs narrowed suspiciously. "The hospital's a few blocks away. We can get there in a few." He hesitated, hands hovering between them. Then, making a decision, he ventured a hand on the other's shoulder.

Slender fingers shot up and wrapped around Merlin's exposed throat. He felt the unusual coldness seeping from the appendage, making him flinch. The hand didn't tighten, remaining a firm but threatening grasp around his neck. Eyes drenched in crimson glinted menacingly at him, fingers squeezing lightly for a moment in warning. Then, Merlin found himself thrown to the side. He just managed to catch himself on his forearms before his face hit the dirty snow-covered ground.

And, well, Merlin didn't think he could give up that easily. He lifted himself up to a sitting position, facing the figure in the darkness once more. He lifted a hand to his throat, feeling the ghosts of cold fingers pressing it. His fingertips came away wet with blood. Losing a lot of blood. If I don't hurry . . .

Merlin fished out his mobile from his pocket. Having turned it off because of the hospital rules, he waited for it to turn on. The screen lit up and he immediately dialed the number of the Albion Hospital. The ambulance should arrive in less five minutes at this distance. Just as he was putting the phone right to his ear, the figure in the alley abruptly stood up. The figure was shaky and lilting to the side, threatening to topple over. He placed a hand on the wall for support. He was stubbornly taking little steps forward deeper into the alleyway.

"Wait! Don't—" Merlin got to his feet and ran after him. He put a hand on the other's shoulder. When the action caused the man to release another whimper and stagger in his steps, Merlin hastily removed it. The warlock's hands hovered yet again. "Stay still. I'll call the ambulance." He tried to be as comforting as possible but couldn't help the concern dripping in his tone.

The words fell on deaf ears as the man continued trudging on, steps heavy on the snow-covered ground. Merlin ran a hand through his hair, uncaring of the way it stuck up in gravity-defying angles. He didn't want to force anyone who didn't want help. But, observing how the other man was almost bent over in pain and blood was dripping liberally wherever he stepped, Merlin already saw too many men die because of either stubbornness or pride. He was not about to let another one go. Muttering a silent apology, Merlin stepped forward to put a palm flat against the other's back.

"Swefe nu." Merlin whispered, feeling the slight burn of his irises. He felt the power shifting and pushing through his fingertips, doing his bidding.

Instead of falling over unconscious like Merlin expected, the other man froze in his steps. His whole body was tensed, breathing almost nonexistent. The man turned around to face Merlin, wide obsidian eyes belying astonishment. The warlock's eyes were similarly wide and his mouth was agape, hand dropping to his side. That was supposed to work. Never had this spell failed him.

Suddenly, dark blue fingers held both his shoulders in a firm grip. The warlock could feel the coldness of the limbs seeping through his clothes. Merlin looked up, locking gazes with those dark-red eyes. The man was staring at him like he was seeing him for the first time, eyes assessing him like he was some sort of rare relic in a museum. Merlin didn't think the other man suspected he used magic; perhaps he would think that Merlin was another mutant like himself. Surely, there was no reason for the extreme scrutiny the warlock was being given.

'What are you?' seemed to be the question running rampant behind those eyes. And well, ouch, because that line of thought had always been a sore subject for Merlin. Cutting off any notion that might lead him into unwanted memories, Merlin opened his mouth to try and reason with him again.

However, it seemed it was unnecessary. After a few seconds, the fingers on his shoulders went limp. Merlin saw the odd eyes roll at the back of his head before closing completely. The warlock instinctively caught him, arms wrapping around the lithe figure's torso. He gingerly lowered both of them to the ground, heaving a sigh of relief. Merlin didn't know whether the other man passed out because of his injuries or perhaps because of the spell. Either way, Merlin could finally call the ambulance . . . which he would do as soon as he find his mobile in this dark alleyway.

"Buggering shite." When he went off to chase the man, he had absentmindedly dropped it. Now, in the darkness, he couldn't distinguish which shadows on the ground were garbage or his mobile. Great.

He pulled back the arm around the man's shoulders and inhaled sharply when his whole sleeve came away drenched in blood. He didn't have time to look for his phone. Making a decision, he shifted his hold on the mutant; he put an arm around his shoulders and another at the back of his knees.

He stood up, struggling a bit at the additional weight, and muttered, "Bedyrne ús. Astýre ús þanonweard."

A great wind enveloped them both, disturbing the snow and garbage around. Merlin felt the universe shift to bend to his will, closing the spaces between his current location and inside the bedroom at his flat. Within moments, they were both gone from the alleyway.


	2. Crimson Glory: The Color of Sorrows and Hopes

WARNINGS: Non-graphic depictions of torture and violence

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Chapter Two

Crimson Glory: The Color of Sorrows and Hopes

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When Loki dived face-first into the surprisingly soft ground, agony ripped through his whole being like lightning (and he couldn't help but laugh at that). He couldn't stifle the moan of pain that escaped his throat. The movement pulled at the stitches on his mouth, the bleeding of the piercings begin anew; not that the bleeding ever stopped anyway. He breathed heavily through his nose, chest heaving in an attempt to catch his breath. He laid there for a while, wanting to take advantage of the time to rest.

The smell of fresh snow hit him like a dizzying balm. He lifted his head from the ground, noticing for the first time that the white ice was surrounding him. It must have cushioned his fall. With his glamor gone and the disgusting Jotunn flesh showing, he barely felt the cold emanating from his surroundings. He dropped his head back down, uncaring of the pain it caused. Loathe as he was to admit it, the coldness of the snow felt good against his cerulean skin. It was comforting even.

He had done it. Judging by the lack of clawed hands dragging him back, he was quite sure he managed to escape his clutches. He gave a hysterical laugh at that, the effect muffled by his forcefully closed mouth. He, Loki of Nowhere, had escaped. He laughed again, the soundlessness of it becoming more manic. Eventually, he realized that he couldn't stop. His movements were initiating sharp pains throughout his body, wounds being jarred agonizingly. It was especially painful since the stiches in his mouth were pulling at his lips. But he couldn't stop laughing. Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes, freezing into teardrop-shaped ices as they dropped to the ground. Had he finally gone mad? Thor and the Allfather would probably argue that he had been mad all along. He had escaped! It didn't matter if he was mad. What mattered was that Loki was finally out of his grasp.

He will find you, a voice at the back of his head whispered harshly. The thought sobered Loki up almost immediately. His laughter stopped abruptly, leaving him surprisingly breathless. He will find you. It is only a matter of time. The trickster shuddered, heart racing as fear poisoned his veins. And the agony you're feeling will be a mere prickling compared to what is to come.

No, Loki shook his head. I will be stronger. His resolve was shaky but the mere thought dissolved some of the fear he was feeling.He will find Loki but the trickster will not go down without a fight. He had overcome many powerful nemeses before. He was not about let him win that easily. He was caught off-guard before. Next time, Loki would be prepared. I will be invincible.

Soft footfalls broke through the thick fog of Loki's musings. He froze, thoughts of him still swirling in his mind. His flight-or-fight mode was on and, feeble and defenseless as he was, he chose the former. He lifted his head, enough for him to see the surroundings. Tall structures made of bricks, metals and wood loomed over him. Light from an unknown source streamed in bright yellow colors, almost blinding Loki. The architecture of them was unfamiliar to Loki and could not for the life of him remember where he had transported himself to. The footfalls were getting nearer. Obsidian orbs darted around, looking for a place to hide.

There, a space between the structures where the light didn't reach. It was only a few feet away and the shadows will hide him. Without wasting time, Loki crawled towards the space. His breathing picked up once more, the snow and dirt getting in his raw wounds. He bit his tongue to prevent any sound from escaping. His progress was slow but eventually, he managed to reach the shadows.

By the Norns, it smelled. Loki wrinkled his nose in disgust. He ignored it in favor of hiding deeper into the shadows. He made himself as small as possible, the fear in his mind overshadowing any pain he was feeling.

The footfalls continued, passing by the alleyway without any incident. Loki almost sighed in relief. But he assumed too soon. One step sounded different, a metallic sound resounding. The footsteps halted and Loki closed his eyes. If he wasn't mistaken, part of his withering armor was just stepped on. Without really thinking, he put a fist to the ground in frustration. He knocked over some paraphernalia and created some obscenely loud noises.

The footfalls became silent, almost cautious. Loki huddled in himself, shutting his eyes. He prayed to the Norns for the first time in a long while that he would not be found. He had nothing to fight with. Such a pathetic sight I must be making.

"Hello?" the baritone voice echoed.

Midgard, Loki realized with a start. He was in Midgard. Although he could not distinguish the languages of the realms with each other, he recognized the inflection and tone of their voices. And after all, it had only been a few months since he last heard the Midgardian speak. The Norns have damned him yet again. Out of the nine realms, he was transported on this troublesome piece of rock. He was transported to a place where another prison awaited him. He didn't think he would be recognized in this form but he would not underestimate the humans—the mistake of the wrong assumption had cost him too much. He curled in on himself some more and couldn't swallow down a pitiful whimper when the movement caused his broken ribs to shift painfully. A dizzying trance overcame him, vision blurring.

"Hello?" the mortal said again, drawing closer.

The events that happened next were a little vague to Loki. He remembered trying to persuade the mortal to leave him the Hel alone. He recalled shoving something with all the strength he had left. He recalled the feel of fingers under his chin and dark blue eyes looking at him with no small amount of concern. Loki recalled the mortal saying that he wanted to help (Loki ignored the feeling of relief that came with the assurance that at least, this mortal did not want to harm him). Loki nearly laughed. The god didn't want help, especially from some immature and greedy civilizationlike Midgard. But the mortal was too stubborn for his own good, really. The annoyance was lucky Loki had not the strength to use his ice powers. If the trickster had, the pitiful mortal would be a mess of frostbite right now with all the touching he was doing.

Well, if the irritating mortal wasn't leaving, then Loki would go on ahead. He struggled to stand, knees almost giving out at his weight. Finally, he managed to get to his feet (barely), his right ankle protesting at the strain. Using the wall for support, he started staggering away from the light and deeper into the shadows.

The mortal, being the very definition of annoying and stubbornness, ran after him. He put a hand on Loki's shoulder and the trickster nearly went to his knees at the increased weight. Pitiful Loki, truly pitiful. He ignored the voice in his head and determinedly continued his walk, if you could call the nearly faltering steps that.

Loki felt a warm palm against his back. And really, how dare this mortal? Loki was preparing to lash out and push the mortal back when the most surreal thing happened.

"Swefe nu." The words were followed the feel of warm energy entering his system.

Loki froze, feeling the swirling mass of foreign seiðr working in his body. It was undeniably magic—Loki recognized a magical signature when he saw one. His own weak and bound magic fought against it, struggling to destroy it. Loki knew it was futile. It was only his inborn immunity against weak enchantments that prevented the immediate effect of the spell. He would have been more worried of what the spell entailed had his mind not been preoccupied with thoughts of the mortal with magic. Curiosity had overwhelmed everything else.

Loki turned around, meeting the surprised gaze of the mortal. Loki caught the fading of the golden glow from his eyes. He grabbed the mortal by the shoulders, eyes assessing him. How can a mortal like you have magic? In the meager lighting provided, Loki can see nothing different about this mortal. Dark hair, possibly pale complexion, blue eyes—features not unlike Loki's Aesir form.

As far as Loki knew, the only time mortals had extensive magic was more than a thousand years in the past. As the years passed by, any magic they could have passed on to their descendants would be diluted. Loki was quite sure no descendant of theirs could have performed a spell that easily, no matter how insignificant it was.

However, before Loki could think more to it, he felt darkness creeping in on his vision. His magic failed him and the spell was taking effect. He felt all his limbs relax, the pain he had been ignoring seemingly far away. Unconsciousness took him in a warm embrace moments after.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Merlin was planning to call the ambulance through his landline. He really was. However, when he had carefully laid down the man on his bed and turned on the lights, Merlin didn't think he was going to make it. In the bright light, Merlin was able to get a clearer look. He let out a sharp exhale at what he saw, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat.

Lacerations marked the entirety of its skin, healing ones overlapped by fresh bleeding ones. The skin that was unmarked by the deep cuts was gifted with dark purpling inflammation. Merlin could tell they were supposed to be bruises on the blue skin. One of its ankles was bent at an unnatural angle, already starting to swell. The right shoulder was severely dislocated. Merlin could see something unnatural in his chest, bones under it shifting sickeningly. At least three of the ribs were threatening to pierce through the skin. The doctor could also tell that there was already a fatal internal bleeding happening with his stomach bloating rapidly.

Calling the ambulance would be useless. He would already be dead by the time the ambulance pulls up. Merlin needed to do something quick.

Merlin removed his overcoat, revealing a dark-blue dress shirt. He grabbed the plastic chair from his desk and placed it beside the bed. He sat on it, rubbing his hands in preparation for what he was about to do. Just as he was about to lay his hands on the other man's almost still chest, a voice at the back of his head piped up.

Who made you god? What right do you have to change a man's fate? The thoughts had always pestered him ever since he decided to be a doctor. Merlin knew himself that it wasn't such a good idea, especially since he had the ability to cure diseases no modern medicine can. But Merlin couldn't possibly save everyone. And there lied the problem. Who was he to choose who lived or who died?

This is no time for moral contemplations, Merlin told himself. He had promised to save anyone he can—anyone whose time on Earth wasn't up, anyone who still hadn't live to their full potential.

Settling his second thoughts, Merlin's resolve strengthened. He put his entwined hands on top of the other man's chest.

"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!"His eyes blazed gold, his magic immediately coming to life.

His fingertips warmed, sparks of energy crackling in the air. Merlin closed his eyes in concentration, directing his magic towards the worst of the injuries. He could feel the flesh stitching themselves close. Blood was pumping viciously on broken veins and arteries and Merlin struggled to heal the frayed nerves.

When some jade energy zapped him, Merlin abruptly pulled out.

"Wha—?" Merlin stared at his hands then at the figure at his bed. It didn't hurt—not really—but it surprised him.

Cautiously, Merlin tried again. He laid his hand on the man's chest again. He directed his magic at the internal bleeding, letting the energy do its work. When he felt another foreign energy helped in the healing, Merlin tried not to pull back again. What is that? When Merlin managed to control the bleeding, he moved on to the ribs. The energy followed him, weakly moving the bones to its proper positions. Merlin frowned but decided to ignore it (whatever it was) until the healing was done. It was doing no harm anyway.

When the ribs had been set and healed to their proper places, Merlin let his magic spread around to heal the worst of the bruises. Everything was going well when . . .

A sharp pain entered his head, along with a sizzle of something dark and coy. It tainted his magic, twisting some of the golden strands until it turned to black and withered away. Merlin flinched away in unadulterated horror, calling his magic back to himself. He pulled his hands back to his own chest, breathing picking up because of what transpired.

It was some kind of magical shackle, attacking any magical energy that came near. It had been a long time since Merlin encountered one; he had forgotten to be wary of any.

"But why?" Why would this mutant have one on him? How? And where was it? Merlin frowned in contemplation. It signified that there was another magic user out there like Merlin. And while the notion would have made him glad (he had been entertaining the idea that he was the only one left with real magic), it seemed this one had no compunction casting dangerous and harmful enchantments. And really, why cast it on a—

Oh. Oh.

Epiphany hit Merlin like a ton of bricks. Why hadn't he recognize that green energy sooner? Magic. By the gods, another magic user! He stared at blue-skinned body on the bed with awe. To think . . . right in front of him . . . Maybe that's why the other man was giving him such scrutinizing looks earlier; he must have recognized the spell Merlin performed. A magic user! . . . One who was going to bleed to death if Merlin didn't stop gawking.

The notion jumpstarted him. His eyes went at still body on the bed, hands hovering inches above to look for the source of the dark magic he gleaned. No sooner had he sent out his magic that the threads stitching the other man's mouth emitted a dark red light. Merlin pursed his lips, hands becoming fists in anger. Of all the inhumane things! Not only were the stitches preventing the other man from speaking,—from eating and drinking even—they were also binding his magic.

The warlock took deep breaths, hoping to mollify his fury. Being angry right now won't solve anything. Merlin promptly stood up and rummaged one of the oak cabinets in the room. He whipped out a first-aid kit, bigger than any normal household ones. He was a doctor after all.

From what Merlin knew about magical entrapments, they can't be removed by magic or any other supernatural means. They can't be removed by the enchanted either. However, Merlin found out that physical means usually did the trick. Merlin hoped that this binding was one of those.

Merlin paused, wondering if he should inject some kind of anesthetic first. Then, he shook his head. Instead, he muttered a numbing spell. He didn't want to introduce anything to the other man's body. Some mutants react differently to modern medicine and Merlin didn't want to risk it. Merlin quickly put on some disposable gloves and fished out a small pair of metallic scissors from the kit. He leaned in, putting one hand on the side of the man's head to keep it steady.

Just as Merlin had one stitch between the blades of the scissors, black eyes surrounded by red decided to flash open.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

When Loki opened his eyes, he experienced a terrible moment of fright. He was back on that abandoned piece of rock in space where only suffering awaits (whips made to rip skin, knives made to cause more pain than damage). He felt the dread he had been experiencing for the past few months whenever he opened his eyes; his awakening signaled more agony to come.

The buzz of fright lasted for but a moment. A flood of memories—of his thankful escape—seized his mind. His eyes darted throughout his surroundings and he immediately realized what the mortal was about to do. He panicked, trying to get away. His body did not seem eager to follow him. He felt sluggish and numb, like he was under cold water. He lifted his hand with no small amount of difficulty. He grabbed the mortal's wrist. The mortal startled at his action, wide blue eyes turning to meet his gaze. Loki tried to use his ice powers on him—to teach the mortal not to mess with anyone who didn't want help. But, judging by the lack of frostbite on the pale skin, Loki was unsuccessful.

"It's okay. It's okay." Another pale hand peeled off Loki's hold. Weak as he was right now, Loki's grasp relinquished quickly. "It's gonna be alright."

Loki could feel the blade between the stitches, threatening to cut something unbreakable. Didn't the mortal think if it could easily be broken like that, Loki would have been free a long time ago? Any endeavor to remove it would just cause Loki immeasurable pain. Loki attempted to raise his hand again. Stop, you imbecile, do not, you cannot, fool—

He heard the thread snap.

Loki froze, unable to believe what he heard. He heard another snapping sound, accompanied with feeling of his lips parting. With no time at all, all the threads are cut off. Loki could feel his magic swirling and sputtering under his skin, achieving the long-awaited freedom but as feeble as the day Loki discovered its existence. How? How could this mortal . . . Loki struggled to wrap his mind around it. This mortal had just broken Allfather's spell. Just like that . . .

"Swefe nu." That damned spell again.

Loki felt his eyes closing even before he knew it, thoughts falling away like stars in the sky. The last thing he saw before slumber again claimed him was blazing gold—bright as the apples of Iðunn.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Merlin dropped the tweezers on the bloodied tissue by the nightstand, along with several golden strings. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, careful to keep the bloody gloves out of his face.

He had managed to remove the threads fairly quick. His magic revolted whenever his skin came near the filaments. Merlin didn't know why he didn't recognize the dark magic earlier. But it seemed Merlin had broken the spell by cutting them. They're just ordinary threads now. Still, Merlin would burn them as soon as he can.

With that, Merlin proceeded with the healing. The jade energy appeared stronger now, focusing on healing the small cuts. The corners of his lips curved upwards. The warlock worked his magic towards other severe injuries.


	3. Venetian Red: The Righteous Anger For Justice

WARNINGS: Brief description of suicide and injuries

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Chapter Three

Venetian Red: The Righteous Anger for Justice

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Darkness had fallen over the golden kingdom of Asgard.

The kingdom was literally gold in color. After all, gold was the most abundant element in Asgard, unlike in Midgard. Tall magnificent structures scattered all around the city, designs spiraling and defying gravity. In the center of the kingdom, the highest building stood in its glittering glory. Shaped like pipes from a pipe organ, this structure is the palace of the royals. The songs of the universe reverberated along its walls, whispering secrets to anyone who care enough to listen.

One Thor Odinson walked the quiet streets of Asgard, his strides strong and confident. He wore his full armor, the metals shifting and clinking softly as he walked. His bright red cape billowed in the wind like some kind of flag. By his side, instead of sword inside a scabbard, there clasped a large silver hammer. Runes were etched on the side of the hammer, its whole being humming softly with strong magic. Thor trod on ahead, mind whirling and shifting through a thousand different thoughts and worries.

Today, Thor would finally be able to go back to Midgard. The prospect both gladdened and worried him greatly. On one hand, he had longed to see his shield-brothers and Jane (especially her). On the other, he was anxious to give them the gravest news they could ever receive. His father, one of the two people who could see everything that was happening all over the branches of Yggdrasil, had assured him that Midgard was presently safe from all foreign invaders. Thor wasn't sure it would stay that way for long. He frowned at the thought.

It wasn't long before the God of Thunder reached the outskirts of the city. The heavy golden gates swung open with a great groan. On the other side, a long bridge expanded in the horizon, only to end with a great spherical dome of gleaming gold. Railings were absent on its sides and no pillars supported it. The only memorable feature of the bridge was its rainbow-colored surface, swirling with iridescent hues. The Bifrost, the rainbow-colored bridge, was the gateway to the seven

Thor walked forward, every step causing the colors beneath the bridge to ripple like water. The god's steps were heavy and wide, covering several meters in a span of a second. Cracks disrupting the swirls of colors reminded Thor of the still ongoing repairs on Bifrost. Although the bridge is already fit for travel, Father had said that there were still adjustments to make. Thor was glad that his father allowed him passage to Midgard as it was.

Below the bridge was a bottomless ocean of the cosmos; the Void where all manner of sufferings were born. Thor remembered stories in his childhood; Mother would warn them against wandering off and falling into that dark deep abyss. Should one so carelessly fall into it, their chances of survival were less than slim.

But then again, Loki did always love to go against expectations. Thor let his mind wander to the events a few years ago. Thor had not understand Loki's motives back then and he still can't fathom them now. Why had the trickster been so intent on destroying Jotunheim? Why had Loki told him their father was dead? What had happened to his brother in the span of Thor's banishment and his return to Asgard? Loki was prankster but his tricks had never (permanently) hurt anyone before. What had changed his brother so much?

Back when he and Loki was hanging over the edge of a destroyed Bifrost, an uncharacteristic fright strangled him when he looked upon the nothingness of the Void. And he had seen Loki's expression that day as the trickster held one end of their father's spear. He had seen the fear, the confusion, and the hurt. Loki had looked so young, so like the little brother that Thor had vowed to protect. Loki had exchanged words with their father but Thor couldn't recall what was said over the panic that was gripping him. He heard his father's soft voice and saw a myriad of expressions go through his brother's face. Then, the trickster's face and eyes went frighteningly blank and cold—resigned. A sudden clarity hit Thor for he saw how Loki's eyes had flickered down to the abyss below. The thunder god started lifting the spear up, hoping that his brother was not thinking what Thor thought he was going to do.

We can fix this, Thor remembered thinking. Whatever this is, we can fix it, Loki. "Loki, no." he had said slowly with a warning lilt. His brother's face was unreadable and he shot a cool look at Thor.

And then, his fingers were no longer around the spear. Thor tried to reach for him, all the while knowing it was too late. Both he and his father watched Loki was swallowed by the Void.

It was only later that his mother would explain all that transpired. It was only later that Thor would learn that his brother was not his brother by blood; Loki was the firstborn of Laufey, their worst enemy. Thor's initial reaction was one of denial—of disgust because how could his brother be one of those barbaric monsters? His mother's slap echoed throughout the hallways. She explained that the Jotunn were not monsters; Mother had profusely apologized for the childhood stories that had caused Thor to think of them as such. After that, Thor had locked himself in his room to contemplate. It was only when his mother had knocked on his door to inform him of the celebrations that he went out. Thor still had not reached any conclusions about his brother. Then, he realized that he didn't have to. His brother was dead. Dead. He let go of the spear. He was dead.

Thor shook his head to get out of the memories. Had Loki known? Had Loki known he was going to survive the Void? Was falling into the Void part of his plan? When the news of his brother's antics in Midgard reached Asgard, Thor was torn between being glad and angry. Thor should have asked Loki these questions before the trickster was gagged but his anger had blinded him. His thoughts back then was that Loki was too far gone to redeem. Gone was the little brother that Thor would have done anything to protect. All that was left was this bitter malicious man that had the same unreadable expression Thor saw at the destroyed Bifrost. The man who now had escaped the Asgardian prison and was out there again to wreak havoc.

A pair of dark feet clad in warrior boots came in his vision. Thor halted his steps, coming out of his musings. He raised his head and the sight of the great dome greeted him. Heimdall, in his golden armor and similarly shining helmet, stood at the entrance instead of his normal station inside the dome. The guard of the bridge was perhaps expecting him. With Heimdall being one of the people that can see the whole of the universe, it wasn't a surprise.

Heimdall's amber eyes pierced through Thor, unblinking and all-knowing. Thor was always slightly unsettled whenever that gaze was upon him.

"Heimdall," Thor nodded in greeting.

"Thor Odinson." The dark-skinned god replied. "I have grave news."

Thor started, expression going dark at the statement. Thunder rumbled lowly in the distance. "Loki?"

"I have glimpsed upon him on Midgard." The guard said, voice tellingly monotonous. "But he is shrouded from my gaze again."

Thor closed his eyes briefly in frustration and exhaled gruffly. Thor had told himself that his brother was too far gone to be redeemed. Still, there had been a stubborn hope in him that wished Loki was done with his scheming ways. The fact that the trickster was in Midgard told Thor that redemption for Loki was a long time coming.

Then, the implications of Loki being in Midgard sunk in. His stomach sank. "Is—"

"Midgard is unharmed," Heimdall cut off, reading his train of thought. "For now."

Thor couldn't help but sighed in relief. Then, his expression turned somber. If Loki was already in Midgard, then whatever scheme he was planning now would soon be taking effect. "What do you think he plans, Heimdall?" Thor inquired, asking for counsel.

Heimdall was silent for a few moments. "I am uncertain. However . . ." a frown made its way to the god's face.

"However?" Thor prompted, leaning forward.

"When I glanced upon him, I saw that he wears his true flesh."

"His Jotnar form?" Thor asked, eyes wide. He had never seen his brother in his other form before. He didn't know what to feel about seeing it now.

"Aye. And he is injured. Perhaps gravely so." Thor can detect some kind inflection in his tone.

"Injured?" Thor's voice rose, the concern he didn't think he would feel again for Loki flooding his veins. "How? By whom?"

"I do not know, Odinson." Heimdall replied in a deep gravelly voice, halting the barrage of questions. "All I know is whatever he may be planning, it will take a while to execute. If he is as wounded as I think he is, his healing will take a long time, especially with his magic bound. Loki is no fool. He will not fight whilst his strength wavers."

Thor sighed, trying to ease all the emotions the news put him through. "I understand. Thank you, Heimdall." Thor made a gesture towards the dome. "I wish to go to Midgard. I must warn my shield-brothers."

"One more thing, Odinson." Thor raised his head to meet the gaze of the dark-skinned god, startled at the note of anxiousness present in his tone. Heimdall had rarely shown such emotion. "Be warned. Before Loki was cloaked again from my gaze, I have sensed something . . ." he frowned, lips pursing. " . . . unnatural."

Thor titled his head in askance. "What is it?"

"A strange pulse of power, one unlike I have encountered before. But I only felt for a moment. It may be nothing." Heimdall mused but concern was still present in his expression. "But you best be careful."

Thor just nodded. "I shall be. Thank you once more, Heimdall."

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Merlin let out a harried breath, exhausted beyond belief. He could the sky lightening from the slits of the window glades. His magic sputtered weakly, like sparks from a flint that was refusing to ignite. He sighed, withdrawing his hand from the sapphire-skinned man's chest.

His magic was spent. Merlin had thought he would be able to fully heal of all the wounds inflicted on the other man. But he had never tried the spell for injuries as extensive and fatal as this man's. He had only tried it on one fatal wound at a time, never on several. But Merlin was quite confident he managed to heal the most life-threatening ones; he noted a bleeding stomach, ribs almost piercing the lungs, a punctured spleen, a fracture in the skull and a dislocated hip. The warlock didn't know how the man was still alive with all those injuries. The man must have been in agony. Merlin could only hope that the man's metabolism and own magic (magic! To think, he would unexpectedly meet another magic-user after a millennia!) would do the rest.

Merlin grasped one of the man's wrist, measuring his pulse; it was beating a bit too quickly to be normal but it was no cause for concern. Merlin supposed then that the unusually low body temperature was normal for the man. He didn't seem to be suffering from hypothermia.

Then, the doctor frowned at the whorls of scars running throughout the man's flesh. It didn't seem recent and they didn't look like normal scars either. Merlin ventured a touch at a spiraling one that was taking up the whole of the other man's right arm. It felt like it was just a slight embossment upon the light blue skin, not grievous scars. Perhaps these too were normal for the man. After all, they looked more like tribunal tattoos than anything.

Merlin got to his feet, blinking away the black spots that appeared in his vision. A dull pulsing was starting at the back of his skull, threatening to become a full headache. It didn't help that his head had met a brick wall just over an hour ago. Now that he thought about it, he should have checked his head. Gingerly, he ran a hand over his scalp. After a few moments, his fingers found a huge lump and he nearly blacked out when he pressed on it too hard.

"No concussion." He muttered under his breath. It would be alright if he let it heal on its own. Probably.

Now, for the manual work. He went downstairs into his sparse kitchen and grabbed a small pail from one of the cabinets. He climbed up again and filled the pail with water in the bathroom, making sure it was lukewarm. Carefully and slowly (because he had yet to cure his clumsy ways), he went inside the bedroom and placed down the pail of water on the nightstand beside the bed. He then rummaged his wardrobe for a clean towel.

Merlin sat down back again and got to work. He gently peeled off the leather that was once can be called as clothes. Some of the fabric stuck to the still gaping wounds like duct tape, dried blood gluing the skin together. Merlin carefully cut the cloth away, removing it as quickly as he can. He needed to work fast lest an infection settle in. The other man made distressed noises but did not wake otherwise.

After removing all the tattered fabrics, he gathered them under the bed to be burned later. The doctor grabbed the towel and soaked it with water. He started wiping down the sticky crimson all over the body, wincing when he pressed a bit too hard at the gaping lacerations. Wisps of green sometimes appeared over the wounds, its glow almost transparent.

After half an hour, he placed the bloody towel on the now crimson-stained pail of water. He blew out an exhausted breath and took a moment of rest. Exhaustion was catching up to him and he tried to stave it off.

Then, Merlin got a roll of bandages from the kit and started bandaging the unhealed cuts. It would have been faster with some assistance but as it was, it took him a few hours of ginger lifting and wrapping. In the end, the blue-skinned man resembled an Egyptian mummy, minus bandages around the head.

The piercing around his lips were bleeding anew and Merlin contemplated on how to go about it. He wished he could have healed those wounds but the residue of dark magic around them made Merlin's own magic recoil. Merlin opted to leave them without bandages for now. If my lips had been sewn shut, I wouldn't want anything to restrict them afterwards, was Merlin's line of thinking.

He sighed again in relief. Now, for the cleanup part. Merlin gathered the bloody sheets and pillowcases, replacing them with cleaner fresher ones from the drawer. He covered the mutant with a thick blue comforter. He placed the dirty sheets in the hamper. He might be able to remove the bloody stains if he tried. Then, he placed the equipment he used back in the kit and put the kit back in his cabinet. He disposed of the surgical gloves and the bloody filaments, along with the torn-up fabrics of clothing.

A jaw-breaking yawn caught Merlin and his eyes watered. It was the third night in the row he had pulled an all-nighter. He was totally knackered. The couch downstairs was sounding incredibly tempting.

But, shower first. It took him a moment to gather the energy to stand up and another moment for the sudden blackness in his vision to fade. Rubbing his eyes to further delay his inevitable tiredness, he headed for the loo.

He removed his clothing smeared with blood, tossing it wherever it wanted to land. He stepped in the shower and twisted the knobs until he found the right temperature. He sighed in relief once more as the warm water relaxed his tensed muscles. The water below pinked as the blood was washed away.

A flash of obsidian eyes, frightened and dismayed, popped in his head. When the blue-skinned man first awakened, those were the expressions in his eyes. Merlin had seen that look—had even worn it a few times himself. It was the look of a hunted prey, one who knew he was trapped and was bracing himself for more pain.

Anger was simmering beneath Merlin's skin. Discrimination against mutants had been prevalent since time immemorial but that does not make hate crimes against them any less disgusting. People fear what they don't understand. And Merlin can understand partially the reasons for their fear because mutants can do quite dangerous things. But what people couldn't comprehend was that not all mutants will hurt them. Most of all, Merlin didn't know what kind of sick bastard would sew someone's mouth shut. It was like one of the things Merlin saw in horror shows—one of the things Merlin didn't expect (or hope) to happen in reality.

Merlin sighed, this time, in helpless frustration. He let the water appease his anger. He washed up quickly, wanting to get to bed as soon as possible. He dried himself and dressed in a loose red shirt and a pair of striped pajamas.

He checked the bedroom one more time. The blue-skinned man was still soundly asleep, breathing labored but otherwise fine. There's a pinched look on his expression, brows furrowed even in sleep. Merlin guessed he was engulfed in a particularly nasty nightmare.

Merlin placed a palm on top of the man's forehead, wondering if he had the energy to do one last spell. He called on his magic and found it sputtering, the golden energy as tired as he was.

"Fordemman út ingehygd sylfum cwealmþréa . Álætan mameracóm éaðeu." He whispered. Immediately, his fingertips warmed with magic. Although he didn't really dabble in magic concerning the mind (too much could go wrong), he had a need of this particular spell. Back in the 1950's, he had needed to free himself from nightmare to get at least a few hours of sleep.

The effects were instantaneous, both on the mutant and on himself. The strained expression disappeared on the man and the muscles Merlin didn't know were tensed relaxed. Meanwhile, Merlin felt his body shudder. He suddenly felt unbearably empty and cold. The warlock shook his head. Then, he sighed, knowing he won't be able to use magic for a while. Well, at least the mutant won't be plagued by nightmares tonight. Merlin arranged the sheets, pulling it up further.

With that, he turned off the lights in the room and went downstairs.


	4. Byzantium: The Clueless Blues and Knowledgeable Reds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, apparently, I've been updating this at fanfiction but forgot to update here. Sorry, guys!

One late morning in city of Manhattan, an Avenger named Tony Stark had discovered something that is of outmost significance. Usually, for this genius billionaire, the term 'outmost significance' translated to 'this meeting is so boring I need an excuse'. Another translation would be 'the pizza is getting cold I need to go'. But this time, the 'outmost significance' discovery was actually significant to other people as well. The whole team of Avengers should have been informed of . . . of . . .  _this_  thing the moment the Battle of New York was finished.

He stormed through the wide hallways of the Stark Tower, now officially named the Avengers Towers (completely fixed and improve, my good people. And it was refurbished in just a few weeks because well,  _money_  and Tony had plenty of it). His face was a mask of blankness but inside, his was brewing with contained rage. Goddamn Director Eye-Patch. Gripping the Stark tablet in his hand tighter, he entered the living room of the highest floor.

The area was where the rest of team usually lounge. On one corner of the room, there was a counter and shelves of numerous alcoholic beverages (because to limit Tony to one would be a crime). Another corner contained some sort of kitchenette, complete with cooking utensils and spices. Tony didn't know that fact until Steve decided to cook for them and he was as surprised as the rest of them to find the complete equipment in the cabinets (Pepper, when you find the time to do that?). Next to the kitchenette was rectangular dining table made of oak and similarly designed chairs around it. Another corner container contained a television set, a lush couch and a glass coffee table. It had all manner of gaming consoles (Playstation, Xbox, Wii, and stuff Tony didn't care about because he didn't invent them. He didn't  _remember_  inventing, anyway). Clint used that portion of the room the most, especially since he had mastered all the games possible.

Tony glanced around, taking note of the people around the lounging area. Natasha was sitting on the maroon velvet couch, nursing a cup of steaming coffee. Her sharp light gray eyes, which were focused on the television screen, turned to Tony as he entered. She nodded in acknowledgement and went back to watching the news. Steve was fussing in the kitchen, cooking what seemed to be some kind of fried food. Tony's nose picked up the tantalizing smell.

"JARVIS, call Clint and Bruce here. Tell them it's important." He told his A.I., unable to completely remove the gruffness in his tone.

" _Very well, Sir."_  The A.I. responded in the tone of a polite gentleman.

Natasha gave him a sharp look, calculating eyes portraying suspicion. Tony merely slumped down beside her, ignoring the unspoken question.

"Everything okay?" Tony heard the  _CLICK_  of the stove being turned off. Steve walked towards them, wiping his hands on a blue hand towel. He cocked a brow at the nonchalant expression on the inventor's face.

Tony shook his head. "Later." He said. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to properly explain to his teammates what had caused his anger. And he wouldn't be able to detect if any of them had known of  _this_  beforehand.

"— _don't know what happened. The plants just died overnight. The whole neighborhood's affected. Mrs. Matthews was forced to close her flower shop today._ "

Tony's head whipped towards the television so fast, his neck gave a painful twinge.  _That_  sounded eerily familiar. A clip of withered plants was being shown, the leaves browning and stems drooping. Judging by the British accent of the interviewee, the neighborhood was probably somewhere in England.

A somber blonde holding a mike popped in.  _"Authorities assured that this phenomenon is beyond scientific explanations. They are under the assumption that this is the work of a mutant. For now, the police is looking into known mutants living in the area . . ."_

Tony's eyes widened fractionally. A similar spectacle had happened several years back, one the inventor would never truly forget. He knew of only one thing that can cause such unexplained happenstance—or rather, only one person. And the last time this happened, that idiot went under a coma for two weeks.

An enormous amount of dread flooded his whole being. Tony abruptly stood up, hand going to his pocket. He whipped out his StarkPhone, fingers immediately flying across the device.

' _Passcode?'_  the phone read. Tony hurriedly entered the right password.  _'Access Granted'_  came on screen and the number immediately started dialing. Tony put it beside his ear.

"Tony?" Steve asked with a worried lilt. Tony spared him a cursory glance and shook his head again.  _Not now_.

Natasha cocked a curious brow, eyes astutely on the phone. Tony would not be surprised if she had seen and memorized the passcode from where she was. Tony would change it later.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Meanwhile, in a dark snow-covered alleyway, a rectangular device lit up. An upbeat music started playing, the sound bouncing off the brick walls. People walking by picked up the sound and their heads turned in confusion. Some checked their pockets to see if their own mobiles were causing the sound. Unfortunately, no one was near enough the alleyway to find the source.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

After a few minutes, a monotonous female voice droned, ' _The number you dialed is currently unavailable. Please try again later._ "

Tony cursed and dialed the number again. After a few rings, he got the same response. He can feel the questioning gazes of the other two people in the room but he deemed to ignore it. He was more focused on quenching the rising panic in him. He didn't know why he was acting this way. After all, that  _idiot_  and him lost all contact years ago. He should not feel as panicked as he was feeling now. But last time this happened, Tony had been there to ensure  _his_  safety. Now, the inventor wasn't sure if  _he_  had someone.

 _He could be lying in a ditch somewhere, dying. That idiot._  "JARVIS, landline?" Tony asked in a harried voice.

" _Sir? Are you asking for Sir Ma—?"_  JARVIS started asking and Tony cut him off.

"Yes!" Tony exclaimed. Immediately, another window popped up on the screen. It was asking for another passcode. Tony entered what he recalled putting in as the passcode. Thankfully, it worked.

"Tony, what's going on?" Natasha had gotten to her feet, her cup of coffee placed on the coffee table. She crossed her arms, shooting him a look that says 'Explain now or I'll shoot you'.

Well, Tony had an immunity against those looks. "Just—There's something I have to do." He almost forgot his previous hot-red anger in the midst of his anxiety. He would deal with that  _other thing_  later. For now, this was more important. He placed his phone beside his ear and heard a dull ringing sound. "Sorry. Later."

He saw his two teammates exchange puzzled glances but the inventor deemed to ignore it.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

_KRRRRRRIIIIIIIING_

Merlin awoke with a start, the movement almost causing him to fall out of the couch. His thoughts were a messy blur, his mind a bit slow on the uptake. For a moment, he heard gunshots, blades ringing, and lots of screaming. Then, slowly, he came into full consciousness and realized the telephone was ringing.

_KRRRRRRIIIIIIIING_

He groaned, feeling sore all over. His neck was particularly giving a painful twinge. Couches were not made for comfortable sleeping. Merlin stumbled towards the small wooden table that held the phone. He rubbed his eyes, not really feeling properly rested. It's been ages since someone called him on his landline number. People usually preferred mobile. Then, he belatedly realized that he had misplaced his mobile. He gripped black phone and pressed the 'answer' button.

" _Marvs?"_  a voice greeted with no little amount of uncertainty. It was a voice Merlin was oh so painfully familiar with.

Suddenly, Merlin was very much awake. "Anthony?" he asked, astonishment coloring his tone.

"Wha—What? Why are you calling me?" Merlin blurted out in his surprised. "I mean—not that I don't—It's just that—But why—"

" _Shut up."_  Merlin's mouth immediately shut with a click. It was time he stopped making a fool out of himself. He heard a deep intake of breath from the other line. " _Where's your phone?"_

"My phone?" Merlin frowned, confused. "Um, I'm holding it . . .?"

" _No, you moron. Your cellphone. The little one that you can carry around in your pocket."_  Annoyance was present in his voice but it seemed Anthony couldn't shake the fondness out of it.

Merlin's brain had yet to fully function. He felt very stupid indeed. "Oh! You meant my mobile. It's—" _in my room_ , was what Merlin was about to say but he then remembered the events last night. "I've lost it."

There was a sigh. There was still a confused frown upon Merlin's face so he repeated a "Why are you calling me?"

" _Nothing._ " Was the too quick reply. " _Can't I call a friend to see how they're doing?"_  An obviously forced laugh followed.

Merlin blinked rapidly in surprise and disbelief.  _Friend,_ Merlin mouthed silently. He opted not to remind Anthony that Merlin hadn't received a single phone call from him in decades. A sharp pang went through his chest at the realization. What reason could Anthony have for calling him now? "Er—Okay. I didn't know you do the house calls. I thought your PA's responsible for that."

 _"Seeing as Pepper is the current CEO of Stark Industries, I saw it fit to take over some of her duties."_  Anthony replied with no little amount of sarcasm.

"Oh." Was the only thing Merlin could say.

A pregnant pause ensued, awkward and uncomfortable. Merlin tapped the handheld phone in a steady beat, waiting. Finally, when the silence was too much, he decided to break it. "Are we going to talk about that day at the hospital or we going to avoid that topic again?"

Merlin heard the wince Anthony was surely wearing.  _"Can we do the latter? JAVIS'll talk to you about the other one."_

Unbidden anger rose in his chest.  _Coward._  It wasn't like Merlin was at fault here. The warlock just wanted Anthony to swallow his inflated pride and – gods forbid—apologize. However, as usual, the genius didn't do the whole 'apologizing gig'. But then Merlin's anger was gone as fast as it had come.  _Their_  lives were too short for anger and grudges. Merlin learned that some things were too petty in the grand scheme of things.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a dull throb at the back of his eyelids that signaled an incoming headache. "What do you want then?"

" _I . . ."_  Anthony trailed off. Then, Merlin heard a resigned sigh. " _I saw something in the news. Thought you might have done something idiotic."_

Merlin couldn't recall anything he'd done that might attract the media. He could not even remember doing anything stupid for the past month (although, the staff at the hospital might argue). He was about to say as much but all that stayed in his mind was a "Were you worried about me?"

" _Really, Ambrose?"_  A tone of exasperation

Merlin smiled, wide and genuine. "You're not denying it." Merlin thought that would be the first thing he would do. "Seems the years have killed the childishness in you."

" _Are you accusing me of_ _ **growing up**_ _?_ " Anthony exclaimed, aghast.

"I would never!" Merlin chuckled, a pang of nostalgia making him tear up. Gods, it had been so long. "You're only consider a grown-up if you take responsibilities."

" _I think owning one of the largest and richest company in the world is considered as one."_  Was the smug and arrogant reply.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Not if you push what all that ownership entails to your PA."

 _"Hey! I'll have you know—_ " There was a soft  _DING_  in the other line. Voices sprang from the background, low and unintelligible for Merlin. He heard Anthony's voice join the noises. " _Look, Marvs, I got some business to attend to. I got to go."_  His tone had changed, becoming somber and contained.

Merlin frowned in concern but decided not to pry. Even though Anthony had finally decided to reach out to him, it didn't mean that their relationship was already alright. "Okay." He said instead. And couldn't help but add a "Call me back when you have the time . . . ?" It trailed off like a question, uncertainty coloring his tone.

Merlin heard the smile and he sighed in relief even before Anthony replied.  _"Fine. If you insist."_  He said magnanimously.

"Ass." Merlin scoffed.

Anthony chuckled and then the line went dead.

Merlin put the phone back in the receiver. It was an unbelievable start to his day. He stood up and stretched, feeling his bones popping in place. An orange shaft of light seeped through the curtains, signaling a setting sun. It was probably around five o'clock.

Merlin let out a jaw-breaking yawn. He needed to prepare dinner.

But he should probably get his mobile first before it gets any darker. Yeah, he should. Merlin grabbed a coat from the rack near the front door and wore it to cover the fact that he was still in his sleeping wear. Plus, it was freezing outside. He slipped on some worn down shoes.

He opened the door and was met with a cold breeze that stung his cheeks. He shut the door firmly behind him and carefully padded down the front porch.

The snow the other night had melted into a wet soppy mess. The street was slick and slippery. A couple of people were walking down with their winter boots, snuggled into thick cloaks. Some casted him strange looks, probably wondering why he was wearing shoes at this kind of weather.

Merlin trudged towards the direction of the alleyway, cautious of his steps. Slippery ground didn't always agree with him and his clumsy ways. He didn't want to smash his head down the concrete any time soon.

When he arrived, he immediately found his mobile. Thank heavens. Buying a new one would be troublesome. He had one new message from Katie and two missed calls from an unknown number. It was with a smile that Merlin realized it must be Anthony's number. He slipped the mobile in the coat pocket and was about to turn back when a thought popped in his mind.

He gazed around the alleyway and to the part of the street near it. There was little to nothing evidence of what transpired last night. Straps of black leather clothing were camouflaging as normal trash. Merlin could see specks and smears of blood on the walls and ground but most were washed away by the melting of the snow. Merlin was only able to notice them because he was looking for them. No wonder no one had called the police.

Speaking of which, Merlin should probably call them sometime soon. Hate crimes like this were usually taken seriously. If those thugs didn't get arrested, they might hurt someone else.

With that last thought, Merlin went back to the house.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Tony ended the call and turned to his teammates. Clint, who had arrived moments ago with Bruce, was giving him a confused frown. Bruce was just timidly hanging in the background, shooting him curious looks.

"Who was that?" Steve asked.

"An old friend." Tony replied smoothly.

"One you saw on the news?" Natasha gave a cursory glance at the television then shot a suspicious look at Tony.

"Look, it's not important." The inventor shook his head, asking them to leave the topic. He really didn't want to talk about  _him_  in front of his teammates.  _Especially since two of them are working directly under S.H.I.E.L.D._  Tony hid a grimace at the thought.

He decided to get to the matter at hand. His previous anger flared once more. "I want to show you something." At the barely-contained venom in his voice, the team's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "JARVIS, play D-13 here. Enable audio."

" _Right away, Sir._ "

The news on the television flickered to black. Everyone turned to see what the video was all about, stances hesitant and uncertain. A low definition clip started playing, the setting was in some kind of commercial building.

"This was taken yesterday at a Union State building." Tony said, eyes hard. The building was a mess. Chunks of concrete scattered chaotically in the ground. Pillars lost a good chunk of their parts.

The people were giving a wide berth at the seemingly source of the chaos. A black man with tattered gray jacket was shouting at another person in a suit. The black man picked up a mass of concrete like it weigh nothing. Tony's teammates had their eyes wide as they watched.

"If  _you bring this building down on us, would that help them?"_  a suspiciously familiar voice reasoned out.

All their attention turned to the man in the suit.

"What the actual  _fuck_?" Clint exclaimed, seeing the face of the dead man on the screen.

 _So he didn't know,_  was Tony's first thought. His gaze turned to Natasha whose own eyes were wide with disbelief. Her fists were clenched in suppressed anger because she was quick to realize what this entailed. Tony was comforted by the fact that at least these two weren't part of the scheme Director Eye-Patch pulled on them.

The others' reaction weren't any better. Steve was openly gaping at the screen. "You said this was taken yesterday?" he asked. Tony answered with a solemn nod. Bruce was performing breathing exercises, eyes taut but no hint of green was showing on his skin. Tony figured he would be alright.

There on the screen was the face of Agent Phil Coulson, one who was supposedly killed by a crazy alien. He was looking quite healthy for a dead man. He talked down the black Superman-esque guy with steady and logical words.

"Jesus Christ." Clint muttered. Steve cast a glare at him at the expletive. "You mean he was alive all this time?"

"So, Fury manipulated us into thinking he was dead." Natasha spoke up for the first time. Her voice was controlled and tellingly nonchalant.

"To force us to work together." Banner reasoned. "It doesn't mean we have to like it." His expression is one of distaste.

"Well, I'd have to commend the Director." Tony seethed. "It worked." Tony should have known S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't below such tactics. But Coulson had been somewhat of a friend, especially since he was the only S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Tony had ever got to meet. His supposed death had angered the inventor that all he had thought about was defeating that crazy Nordic son of a bitch.

"Why didn't they tell us though?" Steve asked with a disapproving frown. "After we defeated Loki, why didn't they tell us that Phil was alive?"

"Hell if I know!" Tony shouted, hands clenching into fists. His anger was simmering dangerously. He couldn't believe the nerve of that S.H.I.E.L.D director! Perhaps his fury also had something to do with being manipulated like a puppet in a show.

"I know how these things work." The Black Widow spoke up, nonchalance ringing in her voice. Dark green eyes narrowed. "The information of his survival became irrelevant as soon as the battle was over."

" _Irrelevant?"_  Tony's voice rose with incredulity. He opened his mouth to give a scathing remark.

A bellowing thunder struck nearby, shaking the whole building to the core. Natasha and Clint instinctively crouched down, trained eyes looking for any threats. Steve and Bruce held onto the back of the couch to regain their bearings. Tony gripped his wrist, assuring himself with the suit bracelet around it. The television flickered on and off but stayed stable a few moments after.

Tony had a mounting suspicion on what caused all of these. It was confirmed when they heard the booming voice of the Thunder God, greeting "My friends!"

Natasha and Clint relaxed their stances, recognizing the voice. Steve blinked in surprise and confusion. Bruce merely shook his head in exasperation. The scientist was again performing breathing exercises. He was probably startled by the sudden thunder. Tony was just glad he didn't Hulked out right away.

Thor swept in the room from the helipad. Tony hoped he didn't leave any dent. The God of Thunder was wearing his usual attire of chainmail and a bellowing cape. His brows were drawn in a determined line and his figure was tensed.

"I bring news." Thor informed and judging by the urgency of his tone, it wasn't anything good.

Tony got a feeling that he would need more than a bottle of whiskey after hearing whatever news the god was bearing.

A couple hours later, he would realized how right he was.


	5. Canary Yellow: The Awakening

Merlin put down the phone, having just talked to the police. They assured him that officers will be coming first thing tomorrow morning to get his statement. They needed the mutant's side too but it's unlikely that the man would be awake sometime soon.

 _Well, let's see what tomorrow brings,_  Merlin thought to himself.

The warlock waved a hand at the telly. Then, he blinked when the telly remained black. Then, he chuckled to himself and dug around the worn-out couch to find the remote he hadn't used in years. He would have to get used to manual work for a while. Finally finding it after a few minutes, he turned on the telly.

_"And the game goes to—Click."_

_"Count with me! One, two—Click."_

_"In other news, an unexplained death of plants in London is being investigated by authorities."_

Blue eyes widened fractionally. He put down the remote on the glass coffee table.

 _"Botanists have been investigating the phenomena. They have assured the farmers that there was no plague spreading but have given no statement as to what was causing such event."_ Clips of withering leaves of trees and plants on familiar streets were shown.

Merlin groaned, having forgotten that part of the healing spell he'd used. When he had first used this spell on Morgana ( _the name still gave him a spike of both sadness and fear_ ), he had thought that the withering of the vegetable crops nearby was a coincidence. But the second time he used it ( _this time, on Arthur because the prat had been poisoned by his own enchanted wife_ ), Merlin had a suspicion that the spell had caused the decay of a part of the forest. Now, after using it a couple more times, the warlock was sure the spell was taking the life forces of those plants in exchange for healing fatal wounds.

Merlin was just glad it wasn't taking human lives.

The Old Religion, the source of Merlin's magic, asked for one thing; balance. And in exchange for life, a life must also be taken. Merlin was pretty sure a human's life would equate to another's. But the healing spell had been given to him by a powerful creature of magic—a dragon named Kilgarrah. It was powerful enough to slightly bend the rules of the Old Religion.

The news showed a picture of Mrs. Matthews' flower shop, the previously blooming plants browning and drooping. Merlin cringed. The Matthews had been having enough of hard time before and now Merlin had to go and ruin their business. Maybe if they receive an anonymous donation, they could buy new supplies. Merlin would have to check his bank account tomorrow.

Then, a realization dawned to him. Was this why Anthony had been worried enough to call? The inventor did mention something about seeing something in the news. But why the concern? Although the spell was exhausting, it wasn't like the warlock was going to die if he cast it. Maybe Anthony didn't know that fact? Merlin tried to recall the last time he had performed the healing spell. Yes, Anthony was there. And then . . . oh, Merlin had been in a coma. The inventor must have thought the coma was induced by the spell, not by the head wound Merlin himself suffered because of the car accident.

Merlin shook the memories out of his head. The accident was something he'd rather not reminisce.

He turned off the telly, deciding to prepare dinner instead. He headed to the kitchen, mind going over the ingredients he was going to need.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

_"Thor! Do not run on such slippery ground!" You shouted, pausing in your running to gather your bearings. You panted, lungs burning with the lack of air and the effort to keep up. Sunlight dotted through the leaves of the high trees around. The sound of the rushing wind and a gentle stream met your ears. The smell of wet soil lingered in the air._

_A high-pitched childish laugh echoed like chimes. "Do not take out the fun in it, Loki! Come!" A small slender hand grabbed your arm and led you away._

_Both of you ran through the mud, the thick foliage hindering your journey. The owner of the hand was laughing happily, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners. The wind tousled his blond hair._

_"Slow down!" You ordered but the laugh at the end diminishes its authority. The other's laughter was contagious. "Where are we going with such haste?" They are running deeper into the forest. The trees are getting thicker and higher, their leaves almost covering the sunlight._

_"Everywhere!" the boy exclaimed with extreme excitement. "Muspelheim! We'll battle the fire giants! Then, to Nidavellir, where we will ask the dwarves to forge the greatest weapons for us." You and the boy finally stopped at a small clearing. The trees were still thick though and almost no light was filtering through. The blonde boy with bright blue eyes turned to you. His smile was wide and ridiculous. "Vanaheim! Mother's home! Maybe we'll find our own maiden to save from there."_

_You laughed, finding the logic ridiculous. "And then what? I suppose you want to defeat some frost giants as well?"_

_The other boy blinked, the smile on his face abruptly disappearing. You frowned in reply, going over what you said. You find nothing strange about your statement. Still, bright blue eyes stared at you with an odd look._

_"The frost giants are dead." He remarked, frowning as well._

_"What?" Your brows raised in surprise. "They are not. Father told us—"_

_"I told you, didn't I?" the boy cut off, his voice is a tad bit different than before. It sounded ominous. "When I'm king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all."_

_You did remember him promising such a bold remark. "Yes. But you're not king yet!"_

_"And who's to blame for the disruption on the day of my coronation?" Blue eyes blazed as he took an angry step toward you. "Who?"_

_In turn, you took a step back in shock. You've never seen him like this. For a moment, a pang of fear went through your being. But you tried to remain calm, voice steady as you asked, "What are you saying, Thor?"_

_Then, suddenly, the boy's angry expression disappeared and turned frighteningly blank. "All frost giants are dead." He repeated, a hand going over the hilt of the dagger strapped to his waist. "All except one." He swiftly took out the dagger. "I have brought you here to purge them once and for all."_

_"What?" a sense of dread was building in your chest. The boy came forward, dagger raised. You stare at him uncomprehendingly. Surely, he won't . . ._

_"Frost giants are monsters, are they not, Loki?" the boy asked innocently._

_"Yes, but—" You were cut off as the boy took another step forward. You staggered backwards, wide eyes staring at him in horror._

_"Monsters deserve to die, do they not, brother?"_

_"Thor, this is not a good jest." You said in a warning lilt but your voice shook at the last word. You held out both arms to shield yourself. The dagger was glinting menacingly, drawing closer to you. "Stop it, you oaf!"_

_"Look at your hands, Loki." The boy growled, glaring. "Look at them."_

_You did._

_They were revoltingly and undeniably Jotnar blue._

Obsidian orbs flashed open to the strangling darkness surrounding him.  _They will come. They will come. More suffering awaits. Prepare. Don't let the pain show. Don't give them the satisfaction. Purge the weakness._  Loki gasped, realizing he had been holding his breath. He blinked rapidly, perishing the pestering morbid notions. He had  _escaped_ , he reminded himself once again.  _He had escaped_. He took a deep breath and let out a shaky exhale. After a few moments, the loud and fast rhythm of his heart slowed to normal.

He opened his eyes again, letting them adjust to the darkness. A plain ceiling with miniscule cracks was the first thing he identified. The second thing was the thick blanket over him and the soft surface he was laying on.

Frowning, he realized something amiss.

He started sitting up, wanting to know more of his situation as possible. As he did, the muscles in his limbs protested. He gritted his teeth and ignored the agony. His progress was slow but eventually, he had his back propped against the headrest. The mere effort made him lightheaded. But that's just it.

He was sore but the pain was all a mere prickling compared to what he felt before. His head was astonishingly clear and refreshed. It felt odd not to have his whole body scream in agony every time he so much as twitch. How could this be possible? Had he been asleep long enough for his injuries to heal? No. He would have died in his sleep if that had been the case. He knew the wounds he had were nothing short of fatal.

So, someone had healed him. Loki recalled a flash of golden eyes and the feel of foreign seiðr upon his skin. He glanced at the bandages wrapped around his arms and hands.

 _The mortal with magic_. Loki still couldn't believe that such a mortal exist at this point in time. But then again, mortals had kept surprising as of late.  _I have really underestimated them._  He would not make the same mistake again.

Loki glanced around the room, obsidian eyes darting sharply on the paraphernalia scattered throughout the floor. The chambers he was in was nothing short of chaotic. An oak cabinet stood in one corner of the room and Loki doubted anything was in it, seeing as the articles of clothing scattered throughout the floor. A desk was placed against the light blue-colored wall, papers strewn about its surface.

In another corner, a full-body mirror stood facing his direction. Loki blinked. The blood-red eyes in the reflection blinked back. Although he had been in his Jotunn form in months, this was the first time Loki faced a clear reflective surface. Even covered in bandages stained red, Loki could still see an expanse of the battered ( _ugly, disgusting, vile, monstrous_ ) sapphire flesh. He swiftly tore his gaze away.

The door was wide open, Loki realized. A soft light was spilling into the room from the hallway.  _So, I'm not a prisoner._  That or the human was severely underestimating him. Well, the mortal wasn't quite wrong. If the mortal was indeed well-versed in the art of seiðr, he would know that Loki's magic was bound. It was pitiful, truly, to be at the mercy of another's just as he escaped.

It was then that Loki remembered with a start that his magic was bound no longer. Bandaged fingers lifted to his mouth. He winced, accidentally pressing hard on the raw wounds in his haste. But he found no threads binding his mouth close. He worked his jaw, opening his mouth to test if this was truly the truth.

He couldn't believe it. His magic, although weak and sputtering, was free. He laughed in relief ( _his magic had been his only ally—it was good to have the assurance back_ ). He had thought he would never get rid of that damned binding spell. Then, he realized that his throat was dry beyond belief and perhaps laughing was not such a clever idea. He had been so used to thirst that he didn't notice. He started coughing, shoulders jerking. He tried to swallow—to stop the incessant hacking and heaving—but all that did was make the coughing worse. He felt his lungs burning with the need for air. His chest ached at the constant jarring.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Merlin looked up from stirring the corn soup he had been making, frowning. He heard a continued muffled noise. Turning off the stove, he tilted his head to the side to identify the sound. It was coming from upstairs from his bedroom. Currently, there was only one person occupying it.

Merlin blinked in astonishment. He didn't think the man would be awake this soon. Then, Merlin realized what that sound was. He quickly opened the fridge and grabbed a pitcher of water and a glass from one of the cabinets. He carried them upstairs to his bedroom.

Upon entering, Merlin turned on the lights. The figure on the bed squinted, covering his eyes at the sudden bright light. Then, he continued coughing onto his hand, flecks of blood going to his palm. He was doubling over in pain.

Merlin filled the glass with water and put the pitcher down on the nightstand beside the bed. The warlock gave the glass to the mutant who swiftly relinquished it from his grasp. When the mutant planned to drink it all in one gulp, Merlin placed a hand on the glass and said, "Slowly or you'll make yourself sick."

The strange eyes shot him a particularly venomous glare but begrudgingly complied. A short moment later, the glass was empty. Merlin took it away and refilled it. The mutant sighed in relief, his slender hand rubbing his chest to soothe the ache. Merlin handed him another glass of water, which the man again drank with impossible quickness.

Merlin placed the glass beside the pitcher. For a moment, he watched the man catch his breath, crimson eyes blinking away the tears of pain. The warlock lifted a hand to rub his back in comfort but, remembering their last encounter, he withdrew it.

"Um . . ." Merlin started, scratching the back of his head. Immediately, the mutant's head snapped up to him. "Do you want to take something for the pain? I think I have some Vicodin or Tylenol." At the man's nonplussed expression, Merlin asked, "Is it alright if you take them? You're not allergic or anything? Maybe—"

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

"Silence." Loki spoke ( _he can speak, he has his words, he has another credible weapon_ ) for the first time, voice hoarse and scratchy from disuse. "My head aches from all your drivel."

The mortal's mouth shut in obedience.  _Curious_ ,the trickster stared at him with narrowed eyes.  _He made no effort to assert his authority on me. Am I not a prisoner then?_

"Why did you help me?" Loki inquired, eyes sharp for any lies the mortal's face might bely.

The mortal shrugged. "I would have called the ambulance but I lost my mobile. So I had to bring you here." He gave a small gesture to the chambers. "This is my flat, by the way. Sorry about the mess. I don't really have the time to clean up." He added sheepishly.

Loki frowned at the answer. It didn't really gave out what he wanted to know. And what was in the Nine Realms was an 'umbiyulance?' and a 'mobael'? A 'flat'? Loki didn't think that the mortal was referring to a smooth expanse of evened terrain. The trickster stored the words at the back of his head, planning to research about them when he got a chance.

"And what compensation do you require of me?" Because Loki knew how these things work. A favor for another much heavier favor. It was best he knew what was expected of him from the start so he could make plans early on. And if those tactics involved some double-crossing and trickery, well, the mortal would never know( _until the knife was already embedded deep upon his back_ ).

Then, the mortal blinked. "Er . . . A 'thank you' would suffice, I think."

It was Loki's turn to be surprise. He tilted his head, thinking the statement over for any double meaning. Did the mortal want to gloat about Loki's indebtedness to him? Did this mean that the favor would come much later in the future? Or perhaps . . . the mortal did just want a 'thank you'? A suspicion bloomed in his mind—if this mortal was what Loki think he was . . . then, it seemed the Norns had decided to be kind to him after all.

"—call?" Loki glanced up, realizing that the mortal had been speaking to him. The Midgardian read Loki's expression and repeated, "Do you have your family's number? A friend's maybe? I can call them to come here for you." The mortal offered a small sympathetic smile.

Loki briefly wondered how the mortal would 'call' them. And then, his thoughts wandered to the realm of Asgard when he heard 'family' ( _he had no friends to call his own so it was not worth pondering upon_ ). He immediately trampled down the thoughts, scoffing internally. He was no longer part of that golden family ( _perhaps he never was_ ). Loki imagined the Allfather discovering him at this state and raging on about the missing threads that served as Loki's punishment. Perhaps this time, the Allfather himself would be the one to sew the trickster's mouth shut.

"What?" the mortal's shocked voice pierced through his musings yet again.

Loki looked up and gathered he had said the last parts out loud. He resisted the urge to hit his head on something hard.

The mortal's dark blue eyes were wide, expression a mix of confusion, disbelief, fury and dismay. Then, he seemed to reign in his emotions and put a calm and partly aloof face. "Did your father do this?" Only his blazing eyes belied the anger he was containing.

Loki's eyes widened fractionally, mind working over what to say. A story blossomed in his mind, one not so far from the truth. Half-lies, after all, were the best lies of all. And if his suspicions were correct . . . "No," Loki replied with a bitter smile. "It was my bro—foster brother."  _Bright blue eyes staring at him with pity. Golden threads glinting in the light. A large needle nearing his mouth. Strong hands holding him down. Please, I'm sorry, Loki, I didn't want, if you had just, Father wanted, why, sorry—_ Loki trampled down the memories that sprung and fought down the feeling of betrayal that accompanied them. He clenched his fist, trying to ground himself through the pain of his nails digging to his palm.  _Stop,_  he told himself _. Control yourself._ A warm hand settled on his shoulder and Loki instinctively recoiled.

The hand withdrew. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me any more." The mortal pursed his lips, expression somber. Loki mentally shook the notions away.

The trickster's suspicions were confirmed. This mortal had helped him out of  _kindness_ , not out of any personal gain or favor. Perhaps he didn't know what Loki was capable of. He seemed to be treating the trickster like he was a fellow Midgardian ( _were there many Midgardian that looked like monsters?_ ).  _This mortal is a fool_ , Loki thought. Who in their right mind would help ( _an evil disgusting beast_ ) someone they knew nothing about? Either way, the Norns had favored him this time. It was wise not to waste such opportunity for a possible safe place to recuperate.

"I . . . called the police," the mortal continued, settling down on a chair beside the bed. Loki stiffened as he listened. "They'll be here in the morning. Whoever's done this, I'm sure they can catch them. Just tell them what you know, yeah?" he gave Loki a small smile of encouragement.

The trickster knew what the _police_  were (thanks to that archer he had controlled) and they were a group Loki had not wanted to encounter during his feeble state. The  _police_  were under the control of that pesky organization that had stopped the invasion.

"Very well," Loki answered after a moment of contemplation. Surely he could lie his way out of this one. No one would be the wiser.

Loki thought more of the story he was going to tell. He went over the details, making sure nothing contradicted another. Perhaps it would be more convincing—

"Um, I'm making some corn soup." Loki startled out of his musing at the mortal's voice. He thought the mortal had already left. "Do—Do you think you can eat? Or do you want something else? I can—" the mortal was rambling again. Must he do that? If the trickster didn't know any better, he would say that the mortal was going through such lengths to make him comfortable ( _but that's impossible because as ignorant as the mortal may be, surely he recognized Loki as a monster that shouldn't be catered to?)_. It was starting to get on Loki's nerves.

"The soup will be sufficient," Loki replied, a touch testy. Then, he regretted it as soon as it came out of his mouth.

"Great." The mortal beamed before turning around and leaving.

Loki cursed internally, scowling. He couldn't retract his statement; it would make the mortal suspicious. But the trickster would not be so careless as to eat something he had not seen being made. He truly wasn't thinking when the words came out of his mouth ( _which was a first_ ). It seemed that his brain was still addled by the—( _torture? the binding spell? The betrayal? the Void? No, Loki_ ). Loki closed his eyes, calming his breathing and compartmentalizing the thoughts in his mind.

He couldn't afford any more mistakes.

 


	6. Golden Shimmer: The Fates are Weaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *moon-walks to the center* Surprise, bitches. *twirls on heel* I bet you thought you’ve seen the last of me. *smirks*
> 
> It’s been years, whoop-dee! I actually gave up on this fic a lo~ng time ago. But I was checking my hard drive and saw that I had written another chapter. Then, I saw that HOLY MOLLY HOOPER, this gained a lot of followers, favs and reviews.
> 
> So here you go!

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Chapter 6

Golden Shimmer: The Fates are Weaving

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In a place untouched by most mortals and immortals alike, enormous roots circled around a clearing like a protective barrier. The roots belonged to Yggdrasill, the Tree of Life and the tree who held the realms in its branches.

By the base of the tree lied a small clearing of marble. Three voluptuous and ethereal women were weaving. Threads scattered in a messy tangle beneath their feet and all around the roots. All of the filaments were of different colors and length for each one was a soul these three women were responsible for.

These three women were the Norns, the goddesses responsible for the fate of every being in all of the Nine Realms.

The ginger-haired woman passed a silver thread to her sister’s waiting hand. The other woman of silky brown tresses who held a pair of blade in her other hand, cut the thread with soft _snip_. Then, she picked up a roll of bright orange filaments and tied the excess of the previous thread with it. A strand of brown hair strayed to her face and she demurely put it behind her ears.

The third woman was sitting on a glimmering deep well in the corner, away from the chaos of strings. She gazed through the clear waters, silvery gray eyes staying sharply on the well. After a few moments, her eyes widened with surprise.

“Skuld!” she called out. The ginger-haired woman raised her head in reply. Similarly silver eyes gave her a blank stare. “Is this your doing?”

Skuld placed the threads in her hand beside the spindle. She approached the dark-haired woman looking upon the Well of Fate. Skuld followed her gaze and saw what she was surprised about. The brunette also halted in her actions and made to join her sisters.

“It is _our_ doing.” Skuld replied. “Do you not remember?”

“Urðr, what surprises you so?” the brunette asked, her voice echoing like a soft melody.  

Urðr shook her head. “They never should have met again. Did we not agree on that?”

Verðandi, the brunette, grasped the situation fairly quickly. “But they have to!” she exclaimed. “Do you wish to doom all the Nine Realms? The threads, have been weaved, sister.”

“We promised Odin.” Urðr reminded. “And the threads can be changed.”

“I have no care for that misguided and imprudent excuse of a king.” Skuld remarked with no inflection in her tone, making the statement sound a lot harsher. “He should not be able to dictate the fate of any creature. That is for us and for us alone.”

“Don’t be so cruel in judgment, Skuld.” Urðr frowned with disapproval. “He was only doing what he thought was best for his family.”

Skuld raised an unimpressed brow. “Well, he is not wise enough for those decisions.”

“We have followed his orders before.” Verðandi said with a near scowl on her beautiful face. “The aftermath had been unpleasant.”

Urðr and Skuld both wrinkled their nose at the reminder. They preferred not to reminisce that incident.

“Besides, we vowed to ‘never let them conspire against him’. No conspiring is happening, is there? And if there is, it is not against him.” Verðandi reasoned with a smile.

Urðr sighed in resignation, seeing that her two sisters had no desire to change their fate. “I suppose that is acceptable.” She glanced at the wavering image on the well. Two tall dark-haired pale-skinned men were walking side by side. One was laughing, stormy-blue eyes crinkling with mirth. The other was trying to fight down a smile, emerald eyes belying amusement.

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Clint Barton let out a harsh breath. Breathe in. Breathe out. He fought down the bubbling anger mixed with fear burning in his chest.

_Screams of your own allies, some people you had considered as friends, echoed throughout the falling Hellicarrier. You ignored them, stalking determinedly towards your destination. An agent crossed your path, a gun aiming right at you. He was shouting something but was abruptly cut short as your arrow found its way through his chest. You coldly kicked the bleeding corpse to the side and out of your way._

_Nothing mattered but the will of your master. Nothing will hinder you from your goal—not even the screams of your own conscience as your body move against your will, as a flash of dark red hair hinder your path—_

He opened his mouth and said in a calm manner, “ _What?_ ” Okay, maybe not that calm.

Thor turned to him, frowning. “I said that Loki has escaped—“

“I know what you said!” the anger finally burst out of his chest. He felt a comforting hand on his shoulder, grounding and calming him. Clint shot a grateful glance at Natasha before taking a deep breath. Everyone’s eyes were on him, looks varying from sympathy to downright uneasy. “What I meant was how the hell that bastard escaped from what you assured us as the ‘most secure prison of all Nine Realms _’_?”

The Thunder God nodded. “I share your concern, Son of Barton. No one alive saw how Loki managed to escape, not even my father or Heimdall. He could have not escaped unaided.”

“The Chitauri?” Natasha asked, getting right to the point. “Is it possible they could have a hand on this?”

“We have found Chitauri scales—“ Tony made a disgusted face. “—and weapons.” Then, Thor shook his head, confused. “However, the Chitauri themselves have no magical prowess to speak of nor any known teleportation device that isn’t the Tesseract. They couldn’t have gotten in Asgard without help.”

“So, there’s another—what? Enemy? Some unknown entity that may be helping Loki?” Steve piped up, contemplating.

“Great.” Tony groaned, hands twitching for some glass of alcohol. Then, he tilted his head as he realized that nothing’s stopping him from having one. Shrugging, he made a beeline towards his bar at the corner. “Ever thought it’s an inside job? One of your guards got bribed into letting out the prisoner?”

“No Aesir would be so dishonorable,” Thor growled, taking a threatening step towards Tony.

The inventor instantly raised his hands in surrender. “Whoa, man. Chill. I’m just running through the possibilities here.”

“Tony’s right, Thor,” Steve stepped between the fuming Thunder God and the billionaire who was more or less hiding behind the wet bar. The angry blue gaze of the god turned to Steve. The man didn’t even flinch. “We have to consider the possibility that someone with access to the prison helped Loki out.”

Thor glared at them, obviously offended at the insinuation. But he reigned in his anger, knowing his shield-brothers were just trying to help. “Four Aesir guards are dead because of this. No proper Asgardian would betray their fellows.”

Clint scoffed. “Well, your brother certainly didn’t have that problem.”

The Thunder God’s sharp gaze snapped to Clint with clear frustration. “That’s because Loki—“ Thor cut himself off quickly, mouth shutting with a click.

The rest of the Avengers stared at him expectantly. After a pregnant pause, it was obvious that Thor wasn’t planning on adding anything else to that. Tony shrugged and grabbed a scotch from the shelf and glass.

Natasha, the heartless and relentless spy she was, refused to let it go. “You mentioned once that he was adopted.”

Thor didn’t flinch but it was quite close. Tony raised a brow, pouring the scotch into the glass, filling half of it. He dropped some ice cubes onto the drink.

“Aye, he is.” The god admitted with a sigh, eyes on the ground. Tony had never seen him look more defeated than he was now. “He had not reacted well when he found out.”

“Oh?” Tony was intrigued despite it all. “How bad was it? Did he set all your capes on fire? Maybe changed the label of the sugar to salt? No, wait, I’ve got it! He—“

“He attempted to commit genocide in the name of my father.” Thor growled out, obviously displeased that the inventor had made it all a laughing matter. In reply, Tony just took a long drink.

“Genocide?” Bruce spoke up, fiddling with his glasses. “It was—It wasn’t us, was it?”

“Loki had no qualms with your realm back then.” Thor assured. “Loki . . . He is not Aesir-born. He is of Jotunheimr. He—He is a frost giant.”

With his head down and expression shuttered, Thor clearly expected some kind of reaction. Natasha and Clint exchanged confounded glances. Steve stared at the Thunder God with a puzzled frown. Bruce seemed to be the only one who understood the significance because his eyes had widened in shock. Tony raised an unimpressed brow.

“I suppose him being this big frost is a big deal?” the inventor drawled.

Thor sputtered, to Tony’s great amusement. He’s got to ask JARVIS of the footage of that moment. “You—Do you not—Your ancestors, do they not speak of the monsters that invaded your realm?”

“Hmm, not really a big history buff.” Tony replied, scratching the side of his head.

“According to Norse mythology,” Bruce cut in before Tony could further comment. “frost giants are beings that lives in a frozen wasteland. They’re usually depicted as villains in stories and one of them will supposedly cause the end of the world.”

“Many centuries ago, they launched an attack on Midgard. My father and other veteran warriors had stopped them and drove them back to Jotunheimr. Since then, there has been an uneasy peace between our realms.” Thor further explained, a pinched look on his face. “I—Loki and I grew up hearing tales of the Aesir’s bravery and the Jotunn’s savageness in that battle.” His eyes flicked between the floor and the ceiling, seemingly unable to meet the others’ gazes. “The Jotunn’s were painted as the monsters that needed to be killed off in our childhood. The very thought of their race was used to scare children into obeying the elders.”

Silence ensued in the wake of Thor’s account, all of them letting the information sink in.

Tony placed his drink down with an ominous _clink_. “So, let me get this straight; Loki discovered that he’s practically the Bogeyman himself and then he tried to kill his entire race.” Tony frowned. “That’s pretty messed up.”

“Something’s not adding up,” Natasha piped in. “Why? Why would he elect to destroy a race he belong to? Shouldn’t his loyalty switch to the other side as soon as he found out?”

Clint snorted in response. “The mind of a cracked-up egoistical bastard is pretty hard to understand, Nat.”

Thor hesitated but eventually revealed, “Loki told my father that . . . he did it for us—for Asgard.”

Bruce frowned and mumbled something like “internalized racism.”

“It doesn’t matter what his motives were.” Clint reasoned, sounding irritated. He probably saw the statement as Bruce defending Loki. “The fact that he just tried to destroy an entire race should speak for itself.”

Tony’s brows raised in surprise. “Wow, Clint. Didn’t know you had the morality of a child,” he quipped, not really with the intention of justifying that bastard’s actions.

It just irked him whenever people ignored the motives behind an action; he hated it when people preferred to see situations in black and white to make life easier. He admitted that he might be projecting a bit.

“What?” Clint snarled, whipping his head towards the inventor.

Again, Steve, ever the patriot, stepped into Clint’s path. “Calm down, Clint.”

Thor sighed, rubbing his forehead. This discussion of his brother’s motives and actions were exhausting him. He had been contemplating about them for a long time and still reached no conclusion.

“It matters not,” Thor boomed, cutting short any upcoming arguments. “What matters is that Loki is now here in Midgard.”

There was a collective sharp intakes of breath.

“You know, you should really prefaced the discussion with that,” Tony said, tone dripping with sarcasm.

“I think,” Natasha spoke up for the first time in a long while. “we should call Fury first before continuing this.”

Tony groaned, rubbing his face with both hands. This was going to be one long day.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

When he heard heavy footsteps climbing up the stairs, Loki pulled his magic back to himself. Losing his seiðr was less like losing a limb but more like lacking a sense. Now that he was finally able to use it, he would take every chance he could get to let it out.

And because of it, he had learned more about his surroundings and current circumstances. He had transported himself in a populous region of Midgard – one of the noisiest and most guarded, that was. In this house, however, the mortal with magic remained the only occupant. Should Loki feel the need to escape his non-prison, he would only be fighting one being, although it was one with an unidentifiable amount of power. Unfortunately, his seiðr was too weak to gauge the level of magic the mortal currently possessed.

Loki turned as the Midgardian entered the chamber, holding a bowl of something smoking. The delicious smell of food wafted in Loki’s nose and his stomach gave a sound of hearty approval for it.

The mortal placed soup atop a furniture beside the bed. “Wait just one moment,” he said with a smile before rummaging through the knickknacks around the room. He bent down ruffling through the books in the shelf, opening cabinets of the wardrobe.

Loki silently watched him trip over the clothes on the floor and then trip on pure air. This happened thrice in the span of a minute. The liesmith was amazed at inexplicable clumsiness of the mortal. If Loki had not been healed by the very same mortal, the trickster would have thought him a bumbling fool.

“Aha!” The mortal cried triumphantly, brandishing a tray with thin metal rods as legs. “Can I . . . ?” He asked and Loki realized he was asking permission to be in the god’s personal space. Loki tilted his head in a small nod.

The mortal carefully placed the tray over Loki’s lap and balanced the bowl of soup on top of it. _What a primitive invention_ , Loki said to himself as he noted the tray’s purpose. It was to make the food easily accessible from a seating position. The Aesir had one of this; only, the tray hovered instead of using legs.

Immediately, Loki performed a wordless spell on the food, hiding the tiny gesture he made by picking up the spoon. He checked if any poison dangerous to him had been added. The soup remained its normal yellowish pallor. Either his seiðr was too feeble to even detect dangerous chemicals or the Midgardian poison added to it posed no danger to Loki at all.

“That was magic,” the mortal spoke with undeniable delight, practically bouncing on the chair he had settled on. “What did you do?”

Loki suppressed a flinch of surprise. He gave the mortal a genuine-looking smile. “I am merely checking if it contained ingredients to which I am allergic.”

The mortal detected the subtle spell he performed. _Sensitive to any magical usage or merely observant?_

“Oh.” The Midgardian sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I forgot to consider that. What are you allergic to?”

“Nothing that is in this soup,” Loki replied smoothly.

He gulped down a spoonful, unable to deny his stomach any longer. Gods may not need food as regularly as mortals but they still had to eat eventually. Loki had gone too long without food or drink.

He waited a moment. He didn’t feel any additional pain nor any strange sensation. He took another sip.

“Well, that’s oddly specific,” the Midgardian said dryly. Then, he started, seeming to come to an epiphany. “Oh, have I introduced myself?” He held out a hand, grinning. “Marvin Ambrose, doctor at the Albion Hospital.”

 _Ah, a fake name._ Of course, one did not give a real name to a seiðr _-_ user. _Act friendly, indifferent, or antagonistic?_ Loki weighed his options.

A split-second later, he clasped the mortal’s outstretched hand and gave it a firm shake. “Lucas Loptr.” The alias fell unhesitatingly from his lips. “I apologize for my rudeness earlier. I’m afraid, when your –“ Loki adopted an anguish expression and swallowed audibly. “When you’ve experienced what I have, it is easier to lash out.”

It was always wise to make friends with currently unknown entities.

The mortal’s gaze softened, signaling that he had believed Loki’s act. “Nothing to apologize for. I understand completely.”

 _You understand nothing._ Loki relinquished his grasp, making sure not to do unhurriedly as to avoid suspicion. “How did you come by your powers, if I might ask?” Loki inquire, sounding blasé. It was best to gather information while the mortal’s trust in him was still whole. “I have not met anyone else who had the capacity for magic as you do.”

“I was born with it,” was the eager answer. “And I haven’t met anyone who has magic for a lo – a while. How abo –“

“There are others?” _More mortals with extensive magic?_ Loki truly had underestimated Midgardians.

Something akin to pain flashed in the mortal’s eyes. Loki did not miss it.

“They’re all gone now,” he said quietly. “I was starting to think I’m the only one left, actually.” Then, the mortal shrugged any negative emotions off and plastered on a smile. “But apparently not. How did you come by your magic?”

Since there was no easier explanation, Loki decided on the truth. “Same as you. And it manifested during my formative years.”

For the next few hours, Loki talked to the mortal about magic, wanting to find any kind of weakness to use against him. He found out that although the mortal was a physician and had healed Loki’s fatal wounds, healing magic was apparently his area of weakness. Loki feared how powerful the Midgardian was in his area of strength, which appeared to be elemental magic.

The trickster gave little information about his seiðr in return. The mortal noticed but it seemed the Midgardian did not mind the unequal sharing of information. The mortal probably knew enough to realize he had the upper hand on Loki.

The mortal pointedly avoided any topic concerning magic bindings but Loki did not miss the anxious glances he kept shooting on the wounds around the trickster’s lips. Loki nearly snarled at him; he did not need the mortal’s pity. He was a _god_. Loki would show him who needs pity and charity – But the trickster restrained himself. He could not afford to make this mortal his enemy.

After finishing two more bowls of the soup, Loki had feigned tiredness. Well, he truly was tired so he supposed there was little to feign. The mortal nodded, collecting the trays, bowl and utensils. “It’s been a very interesting conversation, Lucas,” the mortal said sincerely, looking like he had been given a wonderful gift during Yuletide. “I’ll leave you to your rest. I’ll be downstairs so just holler any time you need anything.”

“My thanks, Marvin,” Loki returned with an exhausted smile. “Your company and help has been appreciated.” _And your weaknesses noted._

The mortal smiled and switched off the lights to the chamber, although he did leave the door slightly ajar.

Loki gingerly laid down, mind whirring. A plan unfolded in his mind after the information he gathered.

The mortal was clueless and careless. He was too trusting and too _kind_. Loki would recuperate in the house for a few more days, take advantage of the Midgardians idiocy and let his magic build up its strength once more. The mortal would ensure his safety, provided Loki did not do anything to provoke his ire or suspicion.

Then, there was a spell. It took minimal amount of magic. It was risky but it would instantly replenish his depleted seiðr. He had not a chance to try but this would be the perfect opportunity to test it. If it fails, Loki would have enough seiðr to escape.

 _Gather enough magic,_ Loki thought, on the verge of sleep. _Then catch the mortal off-guard._

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In a dimension touched by death herself, a desolate piece of rock floated aimlessly in the dark of space. Lizard-like creatures crawled throughout the place, hissing and clawing.

“Master.” A voice hissed, the sound echoing throughout the empty space.

A disfigured creature stepped out from behind a large boulder, tattered robes trailing behind him. His hands of six fingers twitched from its grasp of the boulder, the only sign of fear he showed. He spoke to another creature sitting on an outcrop of rocks—a creature of enormous figure, a red skull, bright blue eyes and a cruel smile.

“The Liesmith has escaped.” The voice hissed again, body bending over in curtsy.

Blue eyes cast a dismissive glance at the bowed figure. Then, those eyes went back to gaze at the stars blinking throughout the galaxies. “No matter.” He said, voice an almost growl. His smile became wider, teeth shown in both menace and delight. “He brought me a gift.”

“A gift, my lord?” the still bowing creature ventured after a while.

“Yes.” The red skulled creature answered. “A particularly amusing toy.” Bright blue eyes closed and he saw an image filled with golden strands beneath his eyelids. “One that can perhaps be as useful as he was.”

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I don’t know if I’ll ever continue this but know that this has been completed . . . in my mind, that is. 
> 
> Man, the plans I had for this. They were awesome! The plot-twists, the angst, the hurt/comfort, the friendship between Merlin and Loki, their magical sparring/practices/training, that asshole Thanos, the friendships I wanted to develop between the Avengers and Loki and Merlin, poor Thor and his sickness, how Tony and Merlin met, BAMF!Merlin moments, Arthur’s return. Ahhhh, pity the plot will never leave the confines of my mind.
> 
> I’m sure you guys have magnificent ideas about what happens next with this premise. Play them in your imagination and enjoy. Good luck to you all! 
> 
> \- Vaguefuture


End file.
